Room Beneath the Stairs (10 page)

“Scotch and soda do?”

“I rarely drink, Mr. Porter.”

“As I said, you're going to need one.”

He thrust it into my hand. I curbed an impulse to hurl it in his face. I was angry now, my cheeks flushed. Evan Porter seemed to find this amusing. He stepped over to the filing cabinets and leaned against them, his strong, bony fingers curled around his glass. There was a speculative look in his eyes as he studied me, as though he were trying to figure out just what made me tick.

Uncomfortable, I glanced at the law books. “Yours?” I asked.

He nodded. “I have a degree in law. I'd like to practice, but it's the impossible dream.”

“Why?”

“The business,” he replied. “On these broad shoulders.…” He sipped his drink, looking discouraged. It was a moment before he looked up at me again.

“I have an office at the cannery,” he said, “but this is where I spend most of my time, trying to keep the business afloat. It isn't an easy task without an assistant, but I'm too impatient to train one. I'd rather handle everything myself. I find it challenging.”

“Now that Grey's back, perhaps you won't have such a hard time.”

He merely smiled a sarcastic smile. “Grey is about as much help as a Saint Bernard puppy. His intentions are good, but I learned long ago that the less Grey has to do with the business, the better. He only manages to foul things up, making my work twice as difficult.”

“I think I resent those remarks,” I said stiffly.

“Indeed? I find your loyalty touching. You've given us all quite a jolt, you know.”

“Have I?”

“Quite. Why did you marry Grey?” he asked abruptly.

“I happen to love him,” I retorted.

“Oh? I don't suppose his wealth had anything to do with it.”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Mr. Porter,” I said icily, “I don't give a damn whether you believe it or not. You're the rudest, most insolent man I've ever met, and if you think I'm going to stand here and be subjected to—”

“I imagine he had to marry you,” he remarked, apparently deaf to my comments. “That would have been the only way he could have you, and he must have wanted you from the minute he laid eyes on you. Yes, no doubt about that. You have a certain quality—what is it? Vulnerability. That's it. You have a charming vulnerability that makes men want to protect you, look after you.”

“I'm not at all vulnerable.”

“No? At any rate, you're not a hard-boiled little swinger. That's some consolation.”

I made no reply. Evan Porter stared moodily into his glass, swirling the amber liquid around. Immersed in his own thoughts, he seemed momentarily to have forgotten that I was in the room. His lean, tanned face looked weary, gaunt; there were lines of fatigue about his eyes. I knew he was only thirty, but he seemed older. In repose, he looked strangely defenseless, a man weighed down with responsibility, deprived of all the simple joys that made life bearable. I took a sip of my drink and set it down. Dinner was going to be an ordeal; I needed to be as clear headed as possible. Catching the movement, Evan looked up at me, but his eyes were still focused on inner things and he didn't really see me. A deep frown suddenly creased his brow. He finished his drink in one savage swallow.

“Damn!” he exclaimed. “As if I didn't have enough on my hands without this! Two boats destroyed in a storm, the workers threatening to strike for higher wages and shorter hours, several investments steadily losing money, and Grey comes home with a wife! I don't know why I put up with it. I don't know why I didn't leave this damnable island years ago!”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“I don't expect you do,” he snapped.

“Why do you—why do you resent me so much?”

“Resent you?”

“You, and your mother—and that man—”

“Burke?”

“The minute he saw me. You'd think I had some kind of disease. What is it? What's wrong? Am I so very objectionable? Burke acted as though I didn't exist. Your mother was like a block of ice, and you—you—” I cut myself short, horrified to realize I was on the verge of tears. I turned away from him, fighting to control myself.

“I'm sorry about all this,” he said. His voice was soft, almost kind. For a moment he seemed nearly human. He set his glass down on the cabinet and walked over to the window, gazing out at the night for a long time, his back to me. His shoulders were hunched, his hands thrust into his pockets. He was such a strange man, so unlike Grey. I wondered what he was thinking about. I wondered what had made him so hard, so unhappy.

When he turned around, his expression was grim. His mouth was set in a tight line. The fingers of one hand tugged at the rust-orange tie, crushing the material.

“You present quite a problem,” he said.

“Why? I don't see—”

“The others—I paid them off, but then he never married any of them. I don't know what to do with you. Are you corruptible, Carolyn? If I arranged a quiet divorce and offered you a large sum of—”

“How dare you!”

“I thought not. We seem to have reached an impasse. Grey had no right to marry you, but he has, and that's that. We'll just have to make the best of things.”

“I think I'm beginning to understand,” I said.

“Are you?”

“Yes. You—you're losing money. The business is about to collapse. You and your mother planned for Grey to marry someone very wealthy. Then I came along and spoiled all your plans. Am I correct?”

“At least it's an intelligent guess,” he said dryly.

“Why don't
you
marry the girl, Mr. Porter?”

“You're forgetting—I'm quite unlovable.”

“And—and the girl was in love with Grey. I see. When he married me, everything fell through. I'm sorry about that, but I'm not sorry he married me. He loves me. I think he needs me. I intend to be an excellent wife to him, and if he loses all his money, so much the better!”

“God! I detest women with character! Give me a mercenary little tramp any day.”

We stared at each other. This brief confrontation had been infuriating, but it had also been strangely exhilarating. I felt much better, revitalized, ready to face anything. We had fought, yes; and I had definitely won the first bout. Evan Porter scowled, looking as though he'd like nothing better than to grab me by the throat. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets as though to restrain himself. I smiled serenely, extremely pleased with my victory.

“I suggest we join the others, Mr. Porter. They should be down by this time.”

“Yes,” he agreed sullenly. “Look, you can drop the ‘Mr. Porter' bit. I'm Evan. I won't pretend that I'm happy you're here, but we might as well try to be civil.”

“That won't be easy,” I said acidly.

“Not for me either!” he snapped.

Grey and his aunt were waiting in the main hall. Helen Porter wore a dark sapphire dress, severely tailored, and with her sleek ebony hair and brittle expression she looked like a glazed porcelain doll. She and Evan exchanged glances as we entered. Evan shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Grey had changed into an elegantly cut charcoal suit of coarse raw silk. His shirtfront was gleaming white, his blue silk tie expertly knotted. His dark blond hair was neatly combed, still damp from his shower, and he seemed completely at ease. He smiled broadly when he saw me, taking my hands and squeezing them tightly.

“You look smashing, luv,” he said in a low voice, pulling me to one side so that the others couldn't hear. “I've missed you.”

“There are some things we need to discuss, Grey.”

“I know. No problem. We'll settle everything later.”

We followed Evan and his mother into the dining room. Candles burned in two ornate silver candelabra, casting flickering golden light over the table and reflecting in the polished surface of the immense mahogany sideboard. Tablecloth and napkins were of the finest linen, the dinnerware thin bone china rimmed with gold. Grey helped me into my chair. Helen Porter took her place at the head of the table.

“Isn't your grandmother going to join us?” I inquired.

“Carlotta never leaves her apartment,” Evan said.

“Never?” I asked, surprised.

“Never,” he repeated. “She hasn't come down for over ten years. Our gran's a bit mad—”

“Evan!” his mother said sharply.

“She may as well know,” Evan replied in a nonchalant voice. “Not raving mad, you understand,” he continued, addressing me, “just dotty. Of course it may be pure affectation. I'm of the opinion she's a glorious old fraud and saner than all the rest of us put together.”

“That will
do
, Evan.”

The meal was an awkward one for me. Helen Porter maintained a stony silence, breaking it only to give some snappish order to the middle-aged maid who served us. Evan seemed to be sulking. He jabbed at the meat with his fork, eating very little, ignoring the rest of us. Grey chatted amiably about this and that, impervious to the atmosphere, pausing now and then to joke with Stella, the maid. The household staff, he informed me, consisted of Cook, Burke, Judy and Stella. And, he added as the woman came back to fetch our plates, Stella had had a madly passionate crush on him ever since he was a lad. She blushed and seized his plate angrily, but I could tell that she was delighted with his impudence.

After dessert, Helen Porter rose and asked to be excused, leaving the table abruptly. Some of the tension left with her. I realized that Grey had been chatting all this while to cover up his own nervousness. He looked at his cousin and sighed heavily.

“Taken it hard, hasn't she?” he remarked.

“Rather,” Evan said.

“Didn't mean to throw everybody like this, but—well, you see Carolyn. You see why I couldn't resist marrying her.”

“Indubitably.”

“Everything's going to work out fine, Evan.”

“Oh, yes,” his cousin muttered.

Grey turned to me, smiling that familiar smile. I was eager to talk to him privately, and I was eager to be in his arms. In his arms, none of this would matter. I needed the reassurance of his body, the comfort of his nearness. Grey seemed to sense my thoughts. The smile widened. I felt that warm glow of happiness that still came over me unexpectedly. I still couldn't believe this glorious man was actually my husband.

“Let's go on upstairs, Grey,” I said quietly.

He nodded, his gray eyes glowing.

“Not just yet,” Evan said, rising. “There are some business matters we have to attend to, Grey. There are some papers you must sign.”

Grey frowned. “Can't it wait?” he asked impatiently.

“I'm afraid not.” Evan's voice was cool and quite firm. “It's waited too long already. Your—uh—vacation put us in a bind, Grey. Although your presence isn't necessary to keep the business afloat, your signature is. I'll be in my office.”

He sauntered out of the room. Grey and I stood up. He came to me and touched my cheek with his fingertips, his eyes full of apology, but I wasn't moved. I felt strangely cold, unresponsive to his charm. First he had given in to his aunt, now Evan, as though he were afraid of displeasing them. Why hadn't he told Evan to go to hell? Why did I suddenly feel so insecure and defenseless?

“It shouldn't take long,” he said huskily. “I'll be up in a little while. Okay?”

“I have the feeling they—they're trying to keep us apart.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “Look, we'll talk it all out when I come up.”

I didn't go to my room immediately. Instead, I stepped outside and strolled along the veranda, trying to hold my conflicting emotions at bay. There was a full moon, and the night was filled with shifting patterns of silver and black as clouds drifted across the sky. I moved up the low stone steps to the patio at the side of the house. There was a brisk wind. My carefully brushed hair was soon disheveled. I had no wrap, and the damp night air was chilling. Moving over to the wall, I peered down at the churning waves that assaulted the jagged rocks so far below. Bathed in moonlight, the sight had a curious fascination, and the savage fury of the waves corresponded to something inside me.

For the first time, I wondered if I had made a horrible mistake.

No, no, I couldn't think that. I couldn't allow myself to give way to the doubts and fears that mounted. They wanted to undermine me—Helen, Burke, Evan. They wanted me to feel uncomfortable. I couldn't allow them to succeed. I must be strong … for both of us. I realized now that Grey was completely under the thumb of his family, too amiable, too easygoing to stand firm against them. It wasn't weakness. No, I wouldn't admit that. Grey wasn't weak. He was genial and trusting and almost childlike in his desire to please, to keep everything on an even keel.

Turning, I looked up at the large, sprawling house so incongruously perched here on the edge of the cliff. I could see the lights burning in my room, warm yellow squares against the shadowy gray-black walls. To one side, the carillon tower rose. The tower rooms were in darkness, the windows deep black squares, but I had the feeling someone was standing behind one of them, staring down at me. The patio was flooded with moonlight. I must be clearly visible from that vantage point. Was it the much-discussed Carlotta? How did
she
fit into the picture? Was her refusal to stir from her apartment merely an eccentricity, or did she have a reason? I remembered Judy's chatter about strange noises. In this curious half-light the old house, looming up from various levels, looked vaguely sinister, as though its walls contained some dark secret.

Did they? Was that the reason I had had such a frigid reception? Was there something the family wanted to conceal from all outsiders, something to do with those noises Judy had discussed so dramatically? Standing there on the patio, gazing at the shadowy walls and the dark recesses of the veranda, I shivered, experiencing a moment of stunned fear; and then common sense returned and I smiled wryly. Next you'll be imagining lunatics in the attic rooms and bodies hidden in the basement, I scolded myself. You're Carolyn Brandon, not Jane Eyre, and besides, you're very tired, my girl. Everything will look different in the morning.