The Splendour Falls (14 page)

Shutting the door carefully, I put Gigi on my bed, numbly marvelling at how quickly she returned to her usual sunny self, exploring the rumpled covers with happy curiosity, when just seconds ago she'd been growling.

She'd been growling. That was important somehow.

Pulling out the chair to the writing desk, I sat down heavily as adrenaline drained the strength out of my legs. Startled to find I was still carrying the Davis family history book from the study, I placed it on the cor-ner of the desk.

Come on, Sylvie. Stop freaking out and focus.

I'm an abstract thinker when it comes to choreography, which is all rhythm and patterns. But my sanity was at stake here; I needed to look at things in a concrete way.

The scent of lilacs wafted out as I opened the centre drawer. I found writing paper – perfumed, I supposed – and a pen, ready for ladylike correspondence. Placing a sheet square on the blotter, I drew a line down the middle to make a two-column list. One side said:
Reasons why I might be crazy.
The other said:
Reasons why I might
not
be ready for a white coat with sleeves that buckle in back.

On the
Crazy
side I wrote:

1. There's no such thing as ghosts.

The
Not Crazy
side got this:

1. The fact that I'm making this list.

2. Power of suggestion + creaky, draughty house = overactive imagination.

3. Gigi heard something too.

I hesitated before I added that last one, because it didn't go with the first two. She couldn't have heard my overactive imagination, but she could have reacted to my reaction, in which case it could have gone in either column. But I didn't want
Not Crazy
to be ahead by only one point. Because the point under
Crazy
was pretty unarguable.

Regardless of the score, the act of writing things out had restored some of my equilibrium, like I could grip reality now that I could grip the paper.

A tap on the door made me jump. Gigi's growl was muffled – she'd burrowed under the covers, so I didn't worry about hiding her. The list, however, might as well have been contraband drugs, I was so desperate to get rid of it.

‘Sylvie?' Paula's voice came clearly through the door.

‘Just a sec.' What I needed was an old-fashioned secret compartment. As soon as the notion entered my head, my hand went unerringly to the bottom of the centre drawer. A tiny latch opened a panel underneath. The paper crumpled as I shoved it in but the compartment clicked firmly closed.

With a quick glance to make sure Gigi was out of sight, I went to let in my cousin. But I moved too fast,
coming down hard on my right leg just before I swung open the door.

Paula was dressed in the same crisp khakis and button-down shirt she'd worn at breakfast. She'd already drawn a breath to speak, but when she looked me up and down, she obviously changed whatever she was about to say. ‘Good heavens, girl. What is the matter with you?'

‘Foot fell asleep,' I said, with a very real grimace. ‘Took me a minute to get out of the chair.'

She gave me a doubtful look. ‘I'm guessing that's not all that was asleep. I've been calling you for ten minutes. Clara is making lunch.'

‘Lunch?' I looked at the clock on the bedside table. ‘I guess time got away from me.' At least my mother had taught me a few useful things, like how a little spindoctoring could save a world of trouble. And I knew what would please Paula, so I pointed to the book on the desk. ‘I was reading some family history.'

Her brows winged upward, and she entered without invitation to pick up the book. ‘Did you get this from the study?'

‘I hope you don't mind.'

‘Of course not. I'm happy you're taking an interest.' She laid the book down, then sat at the desk, straightening the pen on the blotter. I kept my eyes resolutely off the drawer.

‘Have a seat, Sylvie. Let's have a little chat.'

Crap. Nothing good was going to come of a start like that. What had I done? Had she figured out I'd brought Gigi upstairs – twice? Eyeing the quiet lump
under the covers, I sat in the upholstered chair so Paula's back would be to the bed.

‘Clara told me you had trouble sleeping last night.' She stared at the wall, just over my shoulder, as if the subject were awkwardly personal. ‘Something about a nightmare?'

‘Just a dream. Strange place. The wind.' I tried not to sound defensive about the fact that my every quirk was under scrutiny. Maybe this was ironic, since no one was scrutinizing me harder than me. But damn it, I'd just stepped my panic down a notch, and now the knot in my chest was twisting tight again.

‘Are you going to report that back to Mother and Dr Steve?' I challenged.

The briefest flash of guilt on Paula's face convinced me I wasn't overreacting. The step-shrink had definitely said something to her. I had to clench my hands on my knees to hold back my anger, which edged out fear by a narrow margin.

Paula shook her head, showing me the magnolia rather than the steel. For now. ‘I'm not reporting anything to them,' she said. ‘But I do know you've been under a lot of stress. And I just want you to know, you can tell me anything.'

Her earnest gravity forced me to bite back my hot retort. Paula was going on what Mother and Dr Steve had told her. For all I knew he could have warned her I might snap at any time, do a Lizzie Borden number some night. Like my
real
shrink would let me wander free if that were a possibility.

I caught a breath of lilac, which reminded me of my
list and that
Not Crazy
was ahead at the moment. I needed to act like it, or I would be in trouble. If they were watching me, I was going to have to be careful and guard my reactions. Which might be paranoia, and have to go in the
Crazy
column. I unclenched my teeth and choked out, ‘Thanks, Cousin Paula. I know you want what's best for me.'

Everyone wanted what was best for me, which was a completely different thing from wanting me to be happy.

She pressed her lips together like she wanted to say more. It was the expression of someone who was choosing her battles, and my sullen tone was apparently a fight she was going to let slide. ‘Fine,' she said, as if that settled it. ‘Now let's talk about what you're going to do with the rest of your day.'

That was not what I expected her to say. ‘Um, I thought I would read my book, then maybe walk to town.'

‘Oh, honey, you can't walk to town.'

‘But I thought it was close by.'

‘Well, yes. About two miles from here.'

Two miles used to be an easy jog. I
could
walk it, but I hadn't tested my leg's limits that far yet. I'd hate to get there and be unable to get back. But I hated feeling trapped more. ‘That's not so far.'

Paula slapped her hands on her knees and stood with the purposeful cheer of a cruise director. ‘I have a better idea.'

My sigh rang with resignation. ‘I thought you might.'

‘Why don't you get started painting the front bedrooms?'

I stared at her like she'd suggested I start flying to the moon. ‘What?'

‘I think it would be good for you to do something active. The whole idea behind your coming here was to give you something to do besides languish around your apartment in that big, anonymous city.'

‘You mean, the idea was to use me for free labour?' I struggled to my feet. ‘Is that how I'm earning my room and board?'

Paula looked genuinely appalled at the idea. ‘Sylvie, this is your family home. We are kin. You don't have to earn anything.' But the steel overtook the magnolia in her voice as she squared her shoulders. ‘Which doesn't mean I'm going to let you lie around the house in your pyjamas all day.'

Our voices had roused Gigi, whose lump began writhing under the quilt, emitting little growls. Paula whirled at the sound, just as Gigi popped out from the covers, her fluff standing straight up around her head.

‘
What
did I say about that dog?' Paula demanded.

Gigi gave a winsome, playful bark, but my cousin was unmoved. I set my jaw stubbornly. ‘You said she couldn't sleep with me at night. You didn't say she had to stay in her crate all the time.'

Paula pressed her hands to her eyes. ‘Get dressed and come down for lunch.' She headed for the open door, muttering as she went. ‘This is why I never had children of my own.'

I turned to Gigi when she was gone. ‘Why does
everyone think I'm so high maintenance? I'd be no trouble to anyone if they had just let me stay in Manhattan.'

If I was enough trouble, would Paula send me back? The thought didn't spark the same hope that it had before I saw Bluestone Hill. Leaving would not be the same as never coming here. I couldn't unlearn my father's background, and I couldn't unask my questions.

Lunch consisted of a gargantuan salad, as if Clara was trying to make up the lack of carnivorous content in vegetable volume. She and Paula discussed business matters, since I didn't try to make small talk. I felt obliged to sulk, and live up to expectations. Or down, as the case may be.

After I'd finished my salad, I took the Davis history book and the bowl of leftover blackberry cobbler that Clara forced on me – to improve my mood, she said – and went out to the garden with Gigi.

I meant to stay in the back yard, maybe even sit under the arbour, but Gigi headed again to the knot garden at the side of the house. I'd brought an old blanket I'd found on the side porch, one that had obviously done picnic duty before, and I spread it where the invading grass had made a soft spot in the out-of-control garden. Gigi sprawled in the centre of the quilt until I scooted her over so I could stretch out on my stomach, the sun on my back and warm through my clothes.

Despite the overgrown disorder, I felt nature working its usual magic on me. The garden's hedges hid me
from the house – unless you were on the balcony upstairs – and by the time I finished the cobbler and Gigi finished the ice cream, I felt calm for the first time since Shawn Maddox had mentioned the word ‘ghost'.

Well, maybe not calm. There was still that lilac piece of paper hidden in my desk. I didn't need to look at it to know how close the score was. But in the garden, that seemed further away. The sun shone, bees flew, grass grew, and the whole thing would keep happening whether I was crazy or not.

Setting aside the bowl, I pulled the book towards me and dove in. Twenty pages later, I decided that slapping up paint would be better than this. Hell, watching paint
dry
would be better than reading William S. Davis, Esq.

I started skimming the text. On one hand, I began to understand why the Davis name was such a big deal here. The family had settled the area and been instrumental in just about everything that happened for two hundred years. But from this book, I didn't get why anyone would be excited about meeting a Davis, living or dead. Old William S. had somehow managed to simultaneously make the family unbelievably grandiose and excruciatingly boring.

Flipping forward, I looked for mention of the Colonel. There was indeed a lengthy chapter on Josiah Davis, and it was as dry as the rest of the book. Blah blah blah Battle of This, Siege of That, yadda yadda yadda Reconstruction … But nothing about the man's personality. I had to infer what I could from his study, and the formal portrait in the book.

It was a bad print of an old photograph. One of
those where the subject had to sit still for about fifteen minutes while the image developed. It was hard to see anything other than a man in a high-collared shirt and double-breasted coat sitting ramrod straight in a chair, a young woman with a baby in her arms standing beside him.

I thought she might be his daughter, but the caption underneath said:
Colonel Josiah Davis and his second wife, Mary Maddox Davis, holding their son, Joshua.
She didn't look much older than me. And her expression definitely didn't say it was a love match.

Was Mary Maddox Davis my multiple-great-grandmother? And the maiden name – did that make her Shawn's however-many-great-aunt?

I couldn't tell much from the dark, blurry photograph and the stiff, sober look on her face. She didn't look very nice, though I wouldn't either if I had to marry a man old enough to be my father. I knew girls got married young back then, and a lot of the men her age would have died in the war, limiting her choices. But still. Not a pleasant prospect.

What happened to the Colonel's first wife? I flipped back a few pages and scanned the text. Ah, died in childbirth with her sixth kid. So where were all the offspring? Even allowing for infant mortality, there should be a few to surround dear old dad and their stepmother. Did the sons die in battle? Had the girls all been married off by the time the photo was taken?

I tried to find the answers in the chapter, but the prosaic writing was useless. William S. Davis managed to record every boring detail about the Colonel's charge
at the Battle of Chickamanga, and nothing I wanted to know.