The Splendour Falls (7 page)

Rhys set the brake with an air of finality. ‘Delivered as promised.' He hurried round to give my cousin a gentlemanly hand out of the car, but she was too quick for him and hopped out on her own.

I was slower, still coaxing Gigi back into her carrier. ‘Almost there, Gee.' I wasn't sure which of us I was reassuring. ‘Maybe there's a nice garden for you to roll around in.'

She gave a grumbling assent and settled into the bag. Rhys had opened my door by then, so I gave him the carrier, freeing my hands to haul my aching butt out of the SUV. I was so stiff, I expected to hear creaking.

Once out, I turned slowly to get the whole picture. A huge tree, probably centuries old, cast moon shadow over the yard, where the remnants of a red brick wall marked the original borders of cultivated landscape.

‘Bluestone Hill.' Paula said it with genteel pride. ‘It wasn't always a country house. The first capital of Alabama was only a few miles away. Folks used to come from the town for grand parties.'

Her words evoked a vivid scene in my mind. Where the drive curved in front of the house, I could picture carriages pulling up and delivering ladies in huge hoop skirts, and gentlemen in top hats and spats. The porch was lit by welcoming lanterns instead of electric lights, and liveried servants stood by the doors.

The scene was so authentic – I seemed to catch a whiff of horse and a snatch of music – that I had to close my eyes, ground myself in reality behind the shutter of my eyelids. I'd always had an active imagination. It came with performing. But since the night of the wedding, I hadn't allowed myself any flights of fancy. It was like keeping weight off a broken toe. I didn't want to test my discrimination of fact versus fantasy too soon.

I wobbled, then opened my eyes and steadied myself with a hand on the car. I hadn't realized Rhys was so close until I heard him ask, in a low voice Paula wouldn't hear, ‘Are you all right?'

Of course I wasn't all right. I wouldn't be in Alabama if I was all right. But the moment of disorientation had passed, and slowly my blood was circulating again – to my legs and to my brain – after the long drive. ‘I'll live,' I said honestly.

‘I'm glad to hear it.' His look was more sympathetic than his words, and he handed me Gigi's carrier so I could slip it over my shoulder. ‘You take your vicious purse dog, and I'll grab your luggage.'

‘Thanks.'

Once I was sure my legs would hold me up, I circled the car to join Paula. Belatedly, I noticed two other vehicles parked further round the curve, a dark SUV and a big red pickup that gleamed in the porch light.

Paula must have followed my gaze. ‘Addie – that's Clara's daughter – and her friends are studying for the end of term,' she explained cheerfully. ‘So you'll get to meet them.'

‘Can't wait.' That was just what I needed, to start meeting people while I was exhausted and grumpy. Grumpier than usual, I mean.

Paula missed the sarcasm in my drawled words, but Rhys didn't. I caught a hint of a smile as he unloaded my biggest suitcase. Paula had obviously not been paying attention at the airport, because her eyes widened as he set the second case beside the first. ‘My. How
much stuff did you bring, child? Your clothes can't take up that much room.'

‘One bag is Gigi's,' I said, already on the defensive in case she made something of it. Besides, I was going to be in Alabama for a month.

‘Of course it is,' she said. ‘Rhys, honey, would you be a dear and take Sylvie's case up to the yellow room – it's the one on the opposite side of the stairs from yours. And her dog's things can go in the sunroom for now.'

Letting him play porter wasn't going to make him stop calling me princess. I couldn't do much more, though, than offer to help.

‘I can manage the small suitcase.'

He smiled wryly at me, as if on to the fact I was only offering so I wouldn't feel guilty. ‘Just go in and see the castle, meet your subjects,' he said.

But he said it without malice, so I took him at his word. Following Paula, I grasped the handrail – which had the sturdy feel of a new addition – and climbed the porch steps, my feet falling in the same traffic-worn place on the bricks as my ancestors'.

‘Just keep your puppy in her bag for now,' my cousin said, waiting on the veranda for me. ‘Until we figure out what to do with her.'

I got that ‘we' meant ‘she', but if ‘what to do with her' was anything other than ‘let her stay with you', we were going to have a problem.

The front door was framed by stained glass on either side and a fan-shaped window above. The lights in the foyer shone through, bright and cheery. I
grabbed the door handle, and after a glance at Paula for permission – she nodded almost solemnly – I pushed it open. The warm, humid air rushed in, and cool air rushed out, as if the house were sighing in welcome.

The entry hall stretched up two storeys, panelled in dark, rich wood. Directly in front of me was a staircase, covered in a patterned runner in jewel tones that had become muted with time and wear. I could sense age in the patina of the banister where countless hands had polished it on their way up or down. I didn't have to close my eyes to picture little Confederate children sliding down the oak railing or high-buttoned shoes treading the carpet.

Again, the detail of the sensations put a knot of tension behind my rib cage. I was as relieved as I was startled when Rhys wheeled my suitcases in with an anachronistic bump over the threshold.

He parked the smaller one near a hallway that led further into the house. ‘I'll take that to the sunroom after I carry yours upstairs.'

‘Thanks,' I said again, including my gratitude for the distraction. It was fervent enough that he glanced at me oddly. To cover, I explained, ‘I know it's heavy.'

Smiling slightly, he echoed my earlier reassurance. ‘ I'll live.'

I watched him start up the stairs, managing the case with impressively little effort. Then I realized I was staring – in a completely normal, noncrazy way, but nevertheless a little inappropriately – and turned my gaze towards Paula.

She stood beside a small desk, checking messages
on a nice, modern phone. Like my bright pink luggage, it looked a bit out of place in the foyer full of old panelling and antique furniture.

‘How old is this house?' I asked.

‘Honey,' said Paula with a ring of pride, ‘this house has been in your family for nearly two hundred years.'

‘Seriously?' I cast an eye over the chandelier, dangling like an earring from the high ceiling. Through an arched doorway I could see a formal parlour, looking like a museum of bric-a-brac.

Paula straightened a guest register on the desk. ‘The Colonel – that's one of your distinguished ancestors – would be rolling in his grave if he knew I was turning this place into a business. But you can't live on history and a family name, now, can you?'

‘I guess not,' I said absently.

My head felt jam-packed – with the trip and the house and Paula and especially Rhys. But the big question elbowing aside all the rest was, how had Dad not mentioned any of this? I tuned out Mother all the time, and I'd obviously ignored everything anyone said about this trip. But I had always listened to Dad. This was kind of a big thing to leave out of descriptions of your childhood.

‘You'll have to explore the gardens when it's daylight,' Paula said, seeming oblivious to my distraction. ‘See where your dad got his green thumb.'

She gestured to a painting on the wall. I resettled Gigi on my shoulder and went closer. It was a landscape of the house – white, colonnaded, antebellum – set in a
very formal geometric garden. Both the painting's style and its perspective were primitive. My eye was drawn to the intricate structure of the gardens at the front and sides of the house, and the orderly rows of a vegetable plot in the back, near outbuildings that might have housed the kitchen and servants. Slaves, I realized, with a guilty twist in my stomach. There was a date on the painting –
BLUESTONE HILL, ALABAMA, 1856.

Was this Old South legacy what my dad wanted to distance himself from by moving to New York? Another picture solidified in my head – a scrawny preteen, standing in the same place, looking up at the same painting and making the same connection. This time I was torn. I wanted to push away the vision before it got too real, before it passed beyond what were normal imaginings in an evocative old house. But if it linked me to my dad, I wanted to grab it tight. Though not if it meant I was crazy.

I realized Paula was beside me, looking worriedly into my face. ‘Are you all right, honey?'

My laugh was, fortunately, more ironic than hysterical. ‘People keep asking me that.' I smoothed the strands of hair that had escaped my bun, hiding the shaking of my hands. ‘It's a good thing I'm not vain or anything.'

She patted my arm – the one on the far side of Gigi– and said tactfully, ‘You look fine, dear. But if you'd like to freshen up before meeting—'

A pair of doors opened behind Paula, interrupting her and startling me. They were set in, so they looked like the rest of the panelling, and I hadn't noticed them
until they slid back to frame a sandy-haired young man. He was big and athletic, all-American handsome.

‘Hi there!' His welcoming smile hit me like an afternoon sunbeam after a wet and chilly morning.

‘Hi,' I answered stupidly.

He turned to include my cousin. ‘Sorry we didn't hear you come in, Miss Paula. We had the music on.'

‘Hello, Shawn.' Paula didn't sound surprised to see him. In fact, she sounded more genial than she had since she found out I was foisting a canine houseguest on her. The smile seemed to affect her, too. ‘Are y'all almost done studying?'

‘Not hardly.' There was something old-fashioned in his phrasing, a fifties television nicety that matched his Wheaties-box smile. It struck me as funny, since I'd joked to Rhys about the
Leave It to Beaver
-ness of the Teen Town Council.

Then Shawn's gaze returned to me, taking in the details in a way that wasn't dated at all. His pleasantly appreciative attention tugged at something in my chest, pulling me off balance. A warm bloom of curiosity replaced the first jolt I felt at his appearance. It spread through parts of me that had been cold for a long time.

‘So, is this the famous Sylvie Davis?' he asked.

Corny, yes, but with a slight self-awareness that made it charming. I wrinkled my nose and answered, ‘Infamous, maybe.'

Holy crap.
I'd wrinkled my nose.
For me, that was borderline flirtatious. I was clearly beyond tired and on to drunk with exhaustion. That would explain a lot.

Paula made the introductions, per Emily Post.
‘Sylvie, this is Shawn Maddox. He's a friend of the family and president of the Teen Town Council. I told you about them, didn't I?'

Shawn's smile widened. ‘So we're infamous, too. You want to come in and meet the gang?'

Not really. All the handsome charisma in the world couldn't make the pain in my leg go away. I wanted a bath, a bed and a book. But Shawn stepped back from the doorway with a gesture of welcome – despite the fact that it wasn't his house, I noted – and I had no graceful way to decline. I tightened my grip on Gigi's shoulder strap, and entered the cosy den.

There were six or seven young people my age, lounging on couches and on the floor, surrounded by textbooks and cans of soda. The scene was set for a marathon study session, but it was a little too affected, a little too staged. They were carefully
not
staring as I crossed the threshold, but I felt spotlit by their curiosity nevertheless.

‘Everyone,' said Shawn, ‘this is Sylvie. Sylvie, this is everyone.' Only he didn't actually say ‘everyone'. He rattled off a list of names that ran through my brain but didn't stick.

‘Hi,' I said, trying to be nice. The coffee table was piled with pizza boxes and greasy paper plates, and my stomach growled. Maybe Paula would think it was Gigi.

But she was too focused on the pile of boxes to notice. ‘Who said y'all could order pizza?'

A tall, slim girl, probably about my age, sat in an upholstered chair, her legs thrown over one of the
arms. Her skin was creamy brown and her face could have been on any magazine – large, tilted eyes; high cheekbones; lips that women in my mother's circle paid a fortune for.

Her expression, however, bordered on aggressively petulant. ‘Don't blow a gasket, Paula. The guys were famished, so Mom said it was OK. She's got sandwiches and stuff in the kitchen for y'all.'

I tried to process that. ‘Mom' must be Clara, the business partner in the B&B endeavour. And if
that
was true, then this must be Addie, whom Paula had mentioned in the car.

‘Or,' said Shawn, ‘Sylvie could eat in here with us. There's still plenty left.'

‘That's a fine, hospitable introduction.' Paula set her hands on her hips. ‘Cold pizza on the floor of the den.'

‘We'll give her a seat on the couch, Miss Paula.' Shawn cajoled her with easy humour, and I could see her sense of propriety unbending under the influence of his smile. ‘Don't you worry.'

Gigi had nosed her head out of the bag, audibly sniffing the pizza-scented air. ‘Oh my gosh!' A redhaired girl jumped up with a squeal and hurried towards us, climbing over two classmates and their books. ‘What an adorable doggie!'

The squeal made my eye twitch, but Gigi accepted the attention as her due. Without asking, Red started petting her, and in a moment another girl had joined us, creating a logjam in the doorway.

‘What's her name? Is she a Chihuahua? I've never
seen one with fluffy hair like that. Look at her riding in your purse, just like a little movie star.'

‘I don't think a movie star would be caught dead riding in a bag from Petco.'