Sustenance (45 page)

Doing her best not to laugh, Charis said, “If he’s any kind of doctor, he’s going to figure it out, if you are actually pregnant, no matter what you say.”

“That’s what I think, too, and that scares me, because I know he’ll tell Jesse, and then it’s solitary confinement for me. I don’t want that, but Jesse is worried, so I’m stuck.” She took another long sip of wine; her glass was now half-empty. “Do you think the doctor should tell Jesse not to be so protective? I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful for his care.”

“You can certainly ask him,” Charis said, and turned on the bench as she heard the thud of footsteps descending the stairs.

“Greetings, Coveners,” Boris King called out, waving, then resuming his descent behind Wilhelmina, who cradled a platter of deviled eggs in the crook of one arm. Both were dressed for this kind of day, he in slacks and a Hawaiian sport-shirt, she in a pin-tucked blouse and a twill walking-skirt. Both wore straw hats and rubber-soled shoes. “A fine day for a picnic!”

“Damn!” said Elvira, and muttered thanks to Charis, then rushed out to greet the latest arrivals.

“It could be a little cooler,” said Nugent from the top of the stairs. “Those of you with hats, remember to keep them on. And if you want tanning lotion, I have a couple bottles in the bathroom; use some if you need it. Better embrocation than sunburn. If anyone wants a fan, I’ve got half a dozen of them.” He grinned at his guests. “Steve’s almost done with his checking. He brought a summer sausage with him.”

“French?” Boris asked.

“Belgian. I don’t know what the differences are. I have mustard in the ice-box, and mayonnaise—I’ll bring it out shortly, with a carving knife and a serving fork.” He waggled his long fingers, then went back to the front of his cottage.

“Willie,” Elvira cried out to Wilhelmina King, and Charis watched Elvira pull Wilhelmina aside, and wondered how many of the women at the picnic would be privy to Elvira’s secret by the end of the day.

Thirty minutes later, almost everyone had arrived, and Nugent asked Charis and Moira Frost to set about putting the various contributions to the feast on the table. “Remember, I have a cold ham to bring out, and a relish of sour cherries and prunes.” He pointed to Wilhelmina. “If you’ll supervise the plates and flatware and glasses, we can leave the potables to Jesse. You don’t mind being cellar-master, do you?”

“It’s fine with me,” said Jesse, reaching into the ice-filled tub under the table for another bottle of beer.

Nugent gave him a thumbs-up sign and continued, “There are blankets under the middle table for those who would like to dine on the grass, and folding chairs are around the corner against the basement door, for those who’d rather be seated properly.” He turned toward the hall through the cottage. “Win’s here; I’d know that Citroen’s engine anywhere. I’ll go tell him where to park.”

“We’ll take care of setting it up,” Charis told him. “But what about Tim?” She nodded toward where his wheelchair had been moved after it had been eased down the path on the south side of the cottage. “Where would you like us to put him?” Tim’s coordination was lessening, and that meant he could not be left to fend for himself even in little things.

“I’ll let Moira decide that,” said Nugent, glancing at the thermometer. “Make sure he’s in the shade, though. It’s heating up.”

“I’ll manage that,” said Washington Young, who had been in quiet discussion with Russell McCall. He had taken on the task of getting Tim about several months ago, and now was viewed by all the Coven as Tim’s practical nurse.

“Excellent,” Nugent approved, then hastened back through the cottage as he heard another car drive up.

“Bethune, let’s hope,” said Charis as she started to set out all the various contributions to the picnic, and moved around Wilhelmina as she set out forks and knives wrapped in serviettes. “Remember to leave an open place for the ham.”

“Yes, we all hope it’s Bethune, and not some pest from the CIA,” said Wilhelmina, watching Moira slice white and rye breads, putting the slices into a large ceramic bowl decorated with low-relief birds and flowers.

“Hello, everyone,” called Steve diMaggio from the top of the stairs. “Someone’s got a fine car out there. Happy says it’s yours, Grof.”

“If you mean the maroon Jaguar, it is mine, and thanks for the notice.” Szent-Germain stopped flapping out the blanket he was about to spread under a weeping willow.

“Who brought the Dutch salad?” Bjornson asked, looking at the steel bowl filled with chopped steamed potatoes, chopped steamed cauliflower, chopped sauteed onions, and chopped hard-boiled eggs, all in a dressing of Hollandaise sauce.

“Guilty,” said McCall. “It’s about the only picnic dish I know how to make.”

“It should go well with the ham,” said Wilhelmina.

Elvira raised her glass in a salute. “To the Dutch salad!”

“Amen,” said Bjornson, reaching for his dark bottle of fruit-infused beer from Belgium.

Tim Frost made a sound that might have been a cheer or a rebuke. He had been wheeled to the far end of the three tables where the overhang of the porch provided him the shadow he needed; Moira went to him and offered him a half a croissant, which he mashed in his fist before carrying it to his mouth.

“Let me deal with this,” said Young, taking Moira’s place at Tim’s side. “You give yourself a break.”

“Thanks, Wash; you’re a life-saver,” said Moira, and went back to cutting up some round barley-rolls.

DiMaggio brought his summer sausage out of a cloth shopping bag; the skin of it glistened and smelled of summer herbs and garlic, a formidable creation as long and as thick as his forearm. “Where do you want me to put this?” he asked.

Mary Anne Triding, dressed more for a garden party than a picnic in a long flowered skirt and a peasant-style blouse, abandoned her contemplation of the pond, and came up the gradual slope of the lawn to the edge of the tables. “Anything I can do?” she asked of no one in particular.

“You can quarter the apples,” Moira said. “There’s another knife in that mug.”

“Hot-diggity! Is there another cutting board?” Mary Anne asked, looking around for one. “I don’t want to ruin the tablecloth.”

“On the shelf,” said Moira, and turned toward Washington Young, who came up beside her.

“Is there any juice or soft drink I can give Tim? He’s getting restive.”

Young looked around at the table. “I’ll tell him it’s almost time to eat, but he’s thirsty now.”

“I think Jesse has some lemonade,” said Moira. “That should do.”

“That sounds like a good choice,” Young said, and went farther down the table to secure a bottle of lemonade for Tim.

Watching his guests, Nugent smiled and poured himself another glass of wine.

From his vantage-point under the willow where Szent-Germain had spread the blanket Nugent provided, he watched the Coven gather and talk. With the arrival of Bethune, the activities became more centralized at the table, now that the last guest had arrived. Charis came up to him, her face obscured by her hat, and took a second or two to study Szent-Germain, who was lying down on the blanket, his attention on the leaves above his head. To his surprise she asked, “Will I feel any different than I do now? After the sixth time?”

“Not immediately, no,” he answered, sitting up to look at her. “But the requirements, later on, will impose some adjustments.” He saw her fretful expression. “You probably won’t have to deal with it for a decade or two.”

“And what will I be like then?”

His dark eyes glowed with compassion. “That is a matter for you and circumstances to determine. There is no set persona for a vampire, any more than there are those for the living.”

“You mean, it depends on when I pass on, and how, I guess. Only I won’t pass on, will I? I’ll be somewhere between life and death. I understand that. You’ve told me the basics: line the soles of my shoes with my native earth, stay out of direct sunlight whenever possible, avoid running water in all its forms, including currents and tides, try not to travel by airplane. Fire can kill me, anything that breaks the spine above the heart can kill us,” she said, making a recital of it. “I still have questions.”

“Indeed,” he said, lying back down as she started off toward the tables.

Jesse had opened another four bottles of wine, and was handing out more bottles of beer. “Those of you wanting blankets, now’s a good time to get them,” he said, nodding to where Szent-Germain sat in the shade of the willow tree. “The Grof’s got the right idea; find a place that’s out of the sun.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Mary Anne as she took one of the blankets. “I’m going down by the pond. There’s an old arbor down there, with some grapes growing.” She nodded to the others. “I’ll be back for food. If anyone would like to join me?”

Pomeroy was taking off his jacket, his face ruddy in the heat. “If you’ll wait a minute or two, I’ll come with you, Mary Anne. So long as you choose a spot with some shade.” He had a somber look about him, and he spoke with caution. “I think we’re under observation; there’s a black car parked just short of the drive up to this place. It’s been there for an hour or so, according to Happy’s neighbor—the one with the goats, a quarter mile along on the other side of the road. I spoke to him; he’s been watching the car.”

“That sounds pretty obvious to me,” said McCall. “I’d expect more subtle surveillance.”

“I think that’s part of the plan, to be conspicuous, so that we’ll know they’re watching us, that they
can
watch us with impunity,” said Pomeroy. “I’d like to be proved wrong.”

“That’s not the only thing you’d rather be wrong about.” Bethune came down the stairs. “Sorry I’m late. Leeland and Rothcoe pulled me in again. I’ve come directly from the meeting. I asked them why they were harassing us in France, but they claimed not to be. They’re just doing their jobs, their assignments, their duty—take your pick.”

“Why did they want to question you?” Nugent was coming down the backstairs, bringing a bowl of cheese sauce.

“I don’t know. They had a new round of questions for me, most of which I couldn’t answer without betraying my canon of ethics, which I suppose they anticipated. It was a stalemate all around.”

Mary Anne sighed and sat down on a small, convenient boulder; this would need more than ten minutes, she was sure. “You might as well tell us about it.” She peered up at the sun through slitted, shaded eyes, feeling the day had lost some of its shine.

“In that case, how did it go?” Charis asked.

“About the same as last time. They might just want to rattle us. But I have to tell you, I don’t trust them. They’re after something, and they’re being cagey about what it is. I did what I could to keep most of you out of it, but I don’t know if it did much good. They might have some new information about us, or they’re trying to get us to give in some way.” He went and got a bottle of beer from Jesse, holding it carefully so as not to lose any of its contents. “Sorry to tell you this,” he went on after taking a swig; he swung around, talking to Bjornson. “I learned one thing: your wife has been talking to the FBI about us. She’s trying to make sure that she’s doing what they want, so she won’t be under suspicion.”

Bjornson nodded heavily. “I’m not surprised.”

“Is there any chance that you could persuade her to be more circumspect? The less she tells about us, the better.” Bethune waited for Bjornson’s answer, as did most of the others.

“I doubt she’ll listen to me, not after she’s made such a point of leaving me in order to return home.” Bjornson sighed. “She’s skittish, and easily peeved. And that makes her manipulable, by everyone but me.”

“But surely she writes to you? She must have mentioned this to you?” Bethune exclaimed. “Can’t you explain this to her?”

“Yes, she sends me monthly letters, and she tells me about the canasta parties she has attended and what she has won, and if she liked the leg-of-lamb at Sunday dinner. She’s afraid her mail is being opened, and her telephone is tapped.” Bjornson was obviously uncomfortable discussing this so openly. “She’s afraid of being denounced as a Communist sympathizer. I can’t blame her for that.”

“She’s probably scared: she won’t pay attention to you, even if you write to her—which I wouldn’t recommend,” Bethune admitted. “That won’t stop the FBI, I’m afraid. It might make them push harder.”

“Would it help if one of us wrote to her on behalf of the Coven?” Pomeroy volunteered.

“Good Lord, no,” said Bjornson. “The greater the distance she can create between herself and us, the happier she’ll be.”

There were murmurs of sympathy mixed with grumbles; Bethune abandoned his inquiry of Bjornson for the time being.

Mary Anne and Pomeroy collected a second blanket, then started down the lawn toward the arbor. As they passed the willow tree under which Szent-Germain was lying, Mary Anne said, a trifle too loudly, “I think Bethune is right, and we still have a spy in our midsts. Someone is passing on information about us.”

“Mary Anne, don’t fret,” Pomeroy said, not wanting to argue with her.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes fixed on Szent-Germain. “Well, he isn’t one of us, is he?” She walked more quickly, her skirts bouncing as her stride got longer. “What’s keeping him from spying on us? He’s a foreigner.”

From his place in the shadow of the willow, Szent-Germain remained still, as if he were napping. He could not blame any of the Coven for having doubts about him; Mary Anne was right in saying he was not one of them, no matter how beneficial Eclipse Press had been for seven of their numbers. He knew he was tolerated more than accepted; given the Coven’s situation, he realized anything more would be an unreasonable expectation. Yet it saddened him to be regarded so mistrustfully. His long experience of exile made him especially sympathetic to the Coven’s plight. He closed his eyes and waited for Charis to join him.

She walked up to him some ten minutes later, a plate of food in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. “McCall says he’s going to London.”

“That makes three times since April,” said Szent-Germain, opening his eyes and propping himself on one elbow. “Are things looking up for him?”