Room Beneath the Stairs (6 page)

“Grey Brandon.”

“Grey
Bran
don? The boy from Greycliff Island?” Several years ago I had told Ellie all about that summer day, discussing it at length. She had a very good memory. “What a remarkable coincidence!”

“Isn't it,” I replied, still staring into space.

“Did you remind him of that day?”

I shook my head dreamily. Ellie was quite impatient.

“What's he doing in
Lon
don?”

“I have no idea.”

“Carolyn, you look—good heavens! You look like someone in a trance. Don't tell me
he's
Mister Right!”

“He might be, Ellie. He—just might be.”

CHAPTER THREE

I lost my job the following week. I really didn't care. I made no effort to find another. My dismissal only meant that now I had more time to spend with Grey. We had gone out together every single night, and now I was free to see him during the daytime as well. Together we took excursions. We went to all the historic spots, the Tower, the Abbey; and sometimes we merely walked, pausing to browse through a shop, to study the architecture of a particularly interesting old house hidden away on some unfamiliar side street. Two weeks passed, then three, and I knew that I was hopelessly in love with him.

I was a different person. I saw everything with new eyes. I had been contented before, drifting through the days in a pleasant stupor, but now there was a sparkle, an exuberance. I was happy, and there is a great deal of difference between happiness and contentment. I awoke each morning with eager anticipation. The joy inside was like a heady wine, intoxicating me. So much has been written about love, so many clichés, and all of them applied to me as I awakened to emotions I had only read about before.

Grey was something of an enigma. He told me very little about himself and rarely mentioned his family. I found out that he lived on the island with his grandmother, his aunt and his cousin Evan, whom I had cause to remember. Fishing was a great industry on the coast, and the Brandons practically had a monopoly on it. They owned more than two dozen large fishing vessels that were manned by men from the village, as well as a great cannery on the mainland. There were also investments in the city, I gathered, although Grey was extremely vague about them. Talking about the island and his family seemed to make him uncomfortable. He frowned and fidgeted every time I asked a question, so I soon stopped.

He never explained what he was doing in London either, although I assumed it was for some kind of prolonged holiday. He certainly hadn't come to transact any kind of business, and he seemed to have plenty of money to indulge every whim. He changed hotels three times, mysteriously, for no apparent reason. I remembered his refusal to write a return address on the package of books he sent to his grandmother. He obviously didn't want his family to know where he was staying. Well, that really wasn't so surprising, I thought. Any number of young men find it refreshing to get away from their families for a while.

I didn't let any of this bother me. I merely enjoyed Grey Brandon as a marvelous companion—jolly, humorous, taking an almost childlike pleasure in the foolish, touristy things we did together every day. During the evening he became a suave, confident escort, the fun-loving lad in suede jacket and jeans turning into a sleek, handsome man-about-town in elegant clothes.

He had a sunny disposition, yet I knew there were hidden depths to his character. Grey was blithe, carefree; yet there were times when a shadow seemed to pass over him. Then he grew silent and withdrawn, his gray eyes cloudy, lips pressed together, a worried frown between his brows. I learned to accept these moods, never to question them. They invariably vanished, and when they were gone he was merrier than ever, his smile warmer than before. At the cove, all those years ago, I had sensed some sorrow, and the sorrow was still there in the man, buried deep inside. I suspected that it had something to do with the loss of his parents, who had died in a bizarre boating accident when he was a very young boy.

Grey was a complex person, and I loved him all the more for it. He was courtly and teasing, manly and seductive, all at the same time. For all his virility and sexual magnetism, he had a kind of puppy-dog vulnerability that made him all the more appealing. He made even the most commonplace things seem exciting, and every moment spent away from him seemed intolerable.

Not that things were perfect. We had our conflicts. These were to be expected, and, not surprisingly, they were over my refusal to accompany him to his hotel room. He felt that such matters were natural and right. I stubbornly clung to my old-fashioned standards. We argued. He could be quick-tempered and sullen, and I hadn't lost all of my childhood scrappiness. Like all couples in love, we argued, and like all couples we felt closer and more united when the arguments were over.

A month passed. The March winds were strong and there was a chill in the air, yet it was truly spring for me, my first real spring. I began to wonder how long it would last. I began to wonder when he would leave, vanishing out of my life as suddenly as he had appeared. Such bliss couldn't last. I felt a certain sadness amidst the joy, and I began to be afraid he wouldn't call, wouldn't appear on the doorstep with his warm smile and wind-flushed cheeks and disheveled blond hair. He was too good to be true. I had done nothing to deserve such happiness.

One Sunday afternoon we were strolling in the park. Although it was April, the trees were still bare, studded with hard greenish-brown knobs that would soon unfurl. The lawns were crowded. Lovers strolled hand in hand or reclined on blankets spread over the grass. Children played noisily, while mothers sat gossiping on the benches, knitting needles clicking. Guitar music twanged plaintively. Overhead, through a network of stark black limbs, the sky was steel gray with just a suggestion of blue.

Grey was silent. He wore tight tan denim trousers and a brown suede jacket, the collar turned back to reveal the sheepskin lining. Dark blond locks fluttered in the wind. Eyes downcast, mouth a bit surly, he kicked at rocks with the toe of his scuffed loafer. He hadn't said a word in the past fifteen minutes. I walked beside him, worried, the wind lifting the skirt of my lavender coat and tugging at the sapphire blue scarf I had tied over my hair. He had wanted us to spend the afternoon in his hotel room. I had refused. The young people necking so passionately and openly on the blankets seemed to mock me and underscore my prudery.

“I just don't understand you,” he finally said, his voice sullen.

“It's quite simple—I happen to be a good girl.”

He scowled, curling his mouth down at one corner.

“Surprisingly enough, there are still a few of us left,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Don't take it so seriously, Grey. You're marvelously sexy. If I were going to sleep with anyone, it would be you.”

“I'm supposed to be flattered?”

“Why don't you just take me back to the flat? You're not the best of company today.”

He ignored me, kicking another stone out of his path.

“You're being terribly childish, Grey.”

“And you're being damned unreasonable,” he muttered.

“I can't help the way I am.”

“If you
loved
me.…”

“That's an old argument, Grey—done to death. I do love you. You know that.”

“Not enough, evidently.”

“There are any number of girls you can sleep with. Why don't you take one of them out?” My voice was testy.

“I just might do it,” he snapped.

“Don't let me stop you.”

“I won't!”

“Well.…”

His eyes glowed with anger. We had reached the familiar impasse. For perhaps half a minute we glared at each other with something like loathing; then his face brightened and that marvelous grin appeared and he slung an arm around my shoulders, pulling me up against him. We followed a twisting, footworn path through banks of towering green shrubbery, ending up at the edge of a large pond. The water rippled; reflections shimmered. Little boys sailed toy boats on the other side, but there was no one near us. Grey drew me closer to him. I leaned my cheek against the soft suede jacket, feeling his arms tighten about me. The warmth of his body warmed me. I dreaded the thought of losing him.

“You're infuriating,” he said, pushing the scarf back and stroking my hair.

I said nothing. My palms rubbed his broad back.

“There're times I'd like to throttle you,” he continued. “My life's been a constant torment ever since I dashed into that damned book shop. I want you, Carolyn. You hear?”

“I hear.”

“You've bewitched me.”

“Have I?”

Curling strong fingers around my chin, he tilted my head back and covered my mouth with his own. The kiss was long and lazy, deeply sensual, with none of the hard urgency he frequently employed. Eyes closed, I savored the tingling emotions I chose to deny. It would be so easy to give in to them. His mouth, his arms were far more persuasive than words. I could feel myself weakening. I drew back, alarmed. His arms still holding me a willing prisoner, Grey gazed down at me.

“We're going to have to do something about this,” he said huskily.

“I'm sorry, Grey. I just can't.”

“You've got some pretty outdated ideas.”

“I suppose I have,” I retorted. “If you wanted a real swinger, you should never have asked me out in the first place.”

“I don't want a real swinger. I want you.”

He sighed heavily, releasing me. I stepped back, retying the scarf over my head. Sunlight sparkled on the pond; glittering silver reflections danced and drowned as flurries of wind scurried over the surface. Across the pond the little boys cried out in glee as their toy boats dipped and darted. Grey thrust his hands into his pockets and tilted his head to one side. A half smile played on his mouth, and there was amusement in his eyes.

“I suppose you're holding out for marriage,” he remarked.

“I suppose I am.”

“Then I guess I'll have to marry you.”

“Don't jest,” I said crisply.

“You think I'm jesting? I'm asking you to marry me, Carolyn.”

“But—”

“Don't you
want
to be my wife?”

“Of course I do, but not—not just so that—”

“You think that's the only reason I want to marry you?”

“Isn't it?” My voice was remarkably calm.

His eyes twinkled. He looked like a mischievous little boy. “That's a part of it,” he agreed, “a large part. But I happen to love you, Miss Dawson.”

“Grey—”

“I figure we'd better do it right away—tomorrow maybe, or day after at the latest, before I get cold feet and change my mind. You'd better snap me up while you have the chance.”

“You're talking nonsense. You don't really—”

“I really do,” he retorted, grinning a wide grin. “Now I figure we'd better start making plans. A simple ceremony; no fuss, no bother. How does Brighton strike you for the honeymoon?”

“You're mad,” I said irritably. “You don't just rush into marriage on the spur of the moment. You—well, a girl needs
time
, and.…”

My cheeks were flushed. My head was spinning. Grey chuckled and swung me roughly against him, giving me a robust, playful kiss and laughing with delight as I pulled away from him. He kissed me again, then with boisterous good humor threw an arm around my shoulders and led me back along the pathway, away from the pond. On the lawn, a crowd had gathered around an impassioned orator who perched on a soapbox and denounced the government with vehement zeal, arms waving furiously. I hardly noticed. Grey squeezed my shoulders, drawing me closer to him. It was the happiest moment in my life.

CHAPTER FOUR

We waited on the crowded, bustling pier. Grey wandered about, impatient, trying to hide his nervousness. He wore bleached white trousers and a bulky-knit blue sweater threaded with gray. His blond hair swirled in the wind. Although he frequently turned to give me a reassuring smile, I could tell that he was almost as apprehensive as I was. Enormous fishing boats loomed up around us, their slick black hulls gleaming, the men on them busily unloading and climbing ropes and swabbing decks. Behind us, the Brandon cannery was a solid gray bulk; a cacophony of noise poured from its windows. One of the servants was to meet us here and take us across to the island in the family launch, and he should have been here by now. No one paid any attention to us as we waited. They all went about their business with great industry. I was on edge, not knowing what to expect.

I had been in a daze throughout the wedding. It had been a hasty, informal affair. I remembered dim corridors and a dusty office, a crackling radiator with a plump marmalade cat curled up beside it, a shabbily dressed justice who peered at us over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and stuttered throughout the ceremony. Ellie and one of her beaux were our witnesses, and afterward the five of us, including the justice, repaired to a restaurant for a splashy and festive wedding dinner. Champagne abounded. The justice got drunk. Ellie looked tearful. Grey seemed nervous and ill at ease, holding my hand in a tight grip most of the time. Then we all went to the station, where Grey and I boarded a train for Brighton.

Grey had sent a telegram to his family from Brighton, informing them of our wedding, and he had received a mysterious telephone call two nights ago. Turning his back to me, he cradled his hands around the receiver and spoke in a low voice. I could tell that he was nervous, then upset, then angry. Scowling, he slammed the receiver down. He made no mention of the call for the rest of the evening. I asked no questions. Later, near dawn, I awoke to find myself alone in the bed, the other pillow dented, sheets still warm. Grey was sitting at the opened window, where the light curtains billowed in and out with a soft rustling noise. Wearing only his pajama trousers, he stared out at the beach beyond the esplanade, watching the waves washing over the carefully swept sand.