Night of the Candles (24 page)

“Perhaps it was the effect of the second dose so soon after the first.”

He shook his head. “I spoke to her doctor about that possibility. He said that a double dose given as it would have to have been, more than two hours apart, would have made her sleep for several hours, but it should not have killed her. No, I can’t shift the blame. It is mine to live with, if I can.”

He allowed a moment to pass before he went on. “But that isn’t what I wanted to put to you. This may — no, it will — sound strange, even mad, but I can’t help thinking … country people, most of our Negro workers, believe in possession, by devils — by the dead. The Catholic Church has a ceremony for casting out the one who has taken possession. No! Don’t answer! Last night you looked, walked, talked and … reacted like Amelia. You were not yourself at all. You cannot remember what you said and did. You took things that were not yours, acted as I’m sure you would never dream of acting when you are yourself. Is there nothing to show that, when you are asleep, or weak from the effect of the injury you sustained, Amelia possesses herself of your body for some purpose of her own?”

It was unbelievable, so beyond thinking that her mind would not function. Her concern fastened on what he had said before. “How did I act? What can I have done to make you say such a thing?” she whispered.

Without haste he moved to take her into his arms. “Only this,” he murmured gently as his lips touched hers.

THE moment she fled the study she remembered that she had not mentioned to Jason the hairpins in her petticoat pocket or the handkerchief tied to her bed. But she could not go back, not after what had happened between them. The feel of his lips lingered on hers. Her heart still beat uncomfortably fast, the effect, she was sure, of the possibility he had disclosed to her. She frowned as she stood in the hall. Could it be that she had been in his arms before? That Amelia had used her body without her knowledge? It did not seem possible, but how else was she to explain her lack of memory of the events described. No. She could not go back after her precipitate flight from Jason and his incredible theory. She would have to wait. There might be an opportunity to tell him of this slight evidence supporting his theory at another time.

She moved up the stairs and along the hall to her room with her mind in confusion. She was just opening the door when Nathaniel came down the hall toward her.

“Wait, Amanda. I want to speak to you.”

His voice was curt with a hint of command. His manner set her back up a little, but she turned courteously enough.

“Inside, please.”

He pulled the door open and they passed through, then he closed it firmly behind him.

“Where have you been?”

A flush stained her cheeks, half from anger, half from the guilty knowledge that she had, in a manner of speaking, betrayed her fiance, but she answered steadily, “With Jason.”

“Oh?”

“He … he has some idea that … I don’t know how to tell you without sounding … melodramatic … that Amelia…”

Nathaniel made a brushing gesture with one raised hand. “Never mind. What I want to know right now is, what were you two doing last night?”

“I … I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? I find that hard to believe, but I will make myself clearer. Sophia tells me that she saw you and Jason … in a close embrace in the doorway of his room last night!”

“Oh.” Sophia. She should have guessed that the venom of Sophia’s anger would lead her to what she considered revenge. Abruptly she realized that was an odd way to put it. Wasn’t it revenge that Nathaniel had called her to account for her actions?

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m afraid what she told you is true, but I can try to explain if you would care to hear it.”

“I’m listening.”

“I … I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought later, when I learned of it, that I must have been sleepwalking … because of the drugs and my head. But Jason thinks because of the way I spoke and acted that … that it was Amelia.”

“Amelia what?”

“Amelia … coming back, using me, my body…”

“Ridiculous!”

“But how else can you explain it, Nathaniel? It wasn’t the first time I have awakened wearing her clothes, her perfume, wearing my hair as she did. I found the hairpins in my petticoat pocket, just as she used to carry them. And Nathaniel, you know me! I would never have dreamed of … of going into the arms of the husband of my dead cousin, not if I were well and myself!”

“Maybe…”

“Yes, go on.” She gripped her hands tightly, afraid of what was coming even before he began to speak.

“Maybe you aren’t well, aren’t yourself, Amanda.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … this head injury. Maybe you only fancy yourself as Amelia. I’ve said it before. There was envy between you…”

“No! Never to that extent, Nathaniel. You can’t believe that!”

“No? Deny you envied Amelia the excitement of her runaway marriage while you stayed at home caring for those old people. Deny that your engagement to me seemed dull compared to the dashing stranger who had run away with Amelia. No. You can’t deny it. I’ve seen it in your eyes whether you realize it or not. I’m not saying it’s deliberate. I’m saying it could be all in your head, on account of the accident. You haven’t seemed yourself to me, not since I came here.”

“Nathaniel, I…”

“I don’t mean to upset you, so there’s no use staring at me with your eyes like plates. Nobody likes to hear the truth about themselves, but I can’t allow you to listen to a lot of nonsense that can’t do you any good. I tell you what I think. I think we should pack our bags and leave this place, just as quickly as we can.”

“Leave?”

“Don’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind?”

She ignored the edge of sarcasm. “I … I don’t think I can.”

“You seem well enough to me. We wouldn’t hurry. We would stop often. Matter of fact, we might even get married along the way. You’re of age. There’s nothing to stop us.”

“I’m sorry, Nathaniel, but I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“A little of both,” she answered, trying to be honest “I have a feeling that I’m needed. I told you Amelia was killed…”

“Please. Don’t start that again,” he begged, his tone weary with tried patience.

“No, no, I won’t, but I won’t go with you either.”

He stepped forward and took her hands. “Don’t, Amanda. Don’t say that. Believe me, it is concern for you that makes me seem … less than sympathetic. I can’t stand to see you like this, to hear you say such wild, improbable things as though you really believe them. Think about what I’ve said. Tomorrow is a new day, a new month, the first of November. It would be a nice day for a wedding. We could leave early, be married in town, and take our own time reaching home.”

The first of November. She had not realized. Tonight was Hallowe’en, All Hallows’ Eve, the Night of the Candles.

“Well, have you nothing to say?” Irritation laced Nathaniel’s tone.

“I … couldn’t. I don’t have my wedding gown with me … Why, it’s not even finished! And besides, you know I’m in mourning for Amelia.”

“The gown doesn’t matter,” Nathaniel told her. “As for your mourning, I have every respect for the dead, but you must admit the relationship was not close either in degree or affection. It’s been nearly three years since you saw your cousin last, three years! No one will blame you for putting your own happiness before the conventions in this case.”

“No, I suppose not, if you look at it in that light.”

Her expression was so much the opposite of the happiness he suggested, however, that he stiffened. “Of course, I may be assuming too much.”

“Don’t be angry, Nathaniel,” she said with a small gesture of distress. “It’s just that I’m so confused.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said, softening at once. “But you will at least think about what I’ve said. Promise me that much.”

She promised at last, to be rid of him, recognizing that a desire to see the back of her fiance was hardly the proper frame of mind in which to consider his proposal.

She kept her promise. She thought of going away with Nathaniel in the morning, of marriage to him. There seemed no substance to her thoughts, nothing to grasp to help her make a decision. Absurdly, she kept picturing him in his long velvet dressing gown and tasseled nightcap. Even that vision could not keep her mind from wandering to other things.

She considered Marta — drunk, derelict in her duty as a nurse the night Amelia died — and what Jason had said. Marta had told Jason that he was the last person to see Amelia alive, but how could she know that? The answer was simply she could not. She had told him what she had to, to protect herself, not knowing or caring that she condemned Jason to the belief that he was a murderer.

Perhaps he is. The whisper came from within. Perhaps Marta had spoken the truth. There was nothing to prove her wrong.

At least the reason why the nurse had stayed on at Monteigne was now apparent. Jason could not afford to let her go away so long as she clung to her version of the last night of Amelia’s life.

She had moved to the window, staring out without seeing. Gradually she became aware of someone moving down below. It was Jason, walking toward the stables. Without conscious reasoning she moved from her room and, on impulse, skirted the stairwell and walked out onto the gallery that fronted the house.

It was dim and shadowy on the gallery, the effect of the overcast sky. A cool breeze swept across the high open space causing her to clasp her arms for warmth. A few dry leaves rustled as they were blown about over the floor and the sound of the wind in the branches of the trees seemed abnormally loud. She stood leaning against a column, staring at the stables, waiting, thinking idly of turning up the back of her skirt to use as a shawl against the coolness, letting a wry smile curve her mouth as she realized it would be a very Amelialike thing to do.

Then at last Jason led his horse from the stable, mounted, and rode toward the house.

As he neared, Amanda thought he looked up and caught sight of her. The fingers of his hand must have tightened for his horse sidestepped, then he turned down the drive and was gone without looking back.

Behaving like a schoolgirl, Amanda chided herself, breathing gently against the pain in her chest. What did you expect? A salute?

No, only a smile. Some acknowledgment of her presence. She was suddenly ashamed, and she had turned to go back into the house when she heard voices on the gallery below.

Nathaniel and Sophia, she thought an instant before they came into view, moving along the walk and out the gate. Their heads were close together, their voices low and intimate. Plotting. The word came unbidden though she could not hear what they were saying. She was surprised at herself. What could they possibly have to plot? The memory of the scene with her fiance returned to her as she stood watching. Nathaniel had said that it was Sophia who had carried the tale of Amanda’s indiscretion to him. She would, no doubt, want to know the results of her efforts.

A weight of dark depression moved in her mind. Stay or go? What was she going to do? One half of her felt as light as one of those dry leaves flying before the wind while the other felt as deeply rooted as the ancient oaks from which the leaves fell.

Go or stay? No one could help her. No amount of plotting would influence her. The decision had to be made in the next hours.

Slowly she turned and went back into the house.

She found Marta in the parlor. Beads and wire lay scattered upon the table at her elbow, the last of the All Hallows’ Eve flowers, but the nurse sat staring into the fire. It was so unusual to see her there in the dim room alone, in the middle of the morning, that Amanda stopped, then went forward purposefully.

“Marta, I want to talk to you.”

The woman started. She turned to look at Amanda before forcing a smile to her mouth. “Of course, fraeulein. Anything you say. But I think it might not be wise for you to come close. I feel sure I’m catching a cold in the chest.”

“I’m sorry,” Amanda, acknowledged this excuse briefly. “I want to ask you about the night Amelia died. Tell me again, what was it you heard?”

“It was very little, fraeulein, and not, perhaps, so unusual except that I found my poor liebchen dead next morning … ‘twas only a scream.”

“You were with her when her husband gave her the last laudanum drops?”

“Ja, standing right beside him.”

“Amelia went to sleep then…”

“Why, yes, and Herr Jason returned to his room.”

“And so you went to bed also?”

“It was to be for only a small nap. One must rest, and there had been so many nights without sleep except in snatches. I drank a part of the bottle I found, thinking it was meant for me, a land of gift. I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.”

“You woke later when you heard Amelia cry out.”

“Indeed. That was the way of it. But it sounded far off. I couldn’t make myself move. I couldn’t go to her. I tried. I did try.”

“I’m sure. It was unfortunate. But tell me. What do you think happened then?”

“Why, I think she must have reached out herself for the medicine. Half out of her mind with pain, the sweet lady took too much. Ach, my poor dear. But ‘twas best, ‘twas best.”

“But Marta, the other day…”

“Ja, fraeulein?”

“You hinted there had been foul play.”

“I? Oh, no, not I!”

“You did, you know you did, because of Amelia’s condition.”

“Condition?”

“The baby.”

“The baby, fraeulein?”

“You told me there was to be a child,” Amanda said slowly, holding onto her temper with the greatest difficulty.

“I don’t remember.”

There was nothing slurred or in the least weak about her words. The woman was not drunk, but still her eyes slid back to the fire as she finished speaking.

“Marta, I…” she stopped, then taking a deep breath, went on more calmly. “I did not make up what I heard. I know what you told me. I don’t know why you are denying it now, but I will get to the bottom of this if it takes me all the rest of the year!”