Room Beneath the Stairs (7 page)

“Grey.…” I said hesitantly.

He didn't move. His body was silhouetted against the window. I could see the smooth curve of his back in the moonlight.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

“Something's worrying you. That phone call—”

“It was Evan.”

“Your cousin? What did he—”

“We have to go back to the island.”

“So soon? But I thought.…”

“The honeymoon's over, Carolyn.”

And here we were, waiting on the pier. Grey had been cheerful all day, but it had been forced, unnatural. It was almost as though he dreaded going back to the island, as though he were afraid. I wondered why. He had married me without first getting his family's approval, true, but that was hardly a valid reason for his tension. He was a grown man, not a little boy returning to face his punishment after an act of disobedience. Perhaps they had planned for him to marry someone else, I thought. Rich, powerful families frequently arranged such matches, and when his grandmother died Grey and his cousin Evan would inherit everything. I hadn't realized before just how wealthy my husband was.

Would the family think I married for money? Would they resent me? I wished I knew more about them. I recalled my encounter with Evan Porter so long ago. He had been an insufferable boy. What kind of man was he? His mother, I knew, had been Helen Brandon, Grey's father's sister. Her husband, Douglas Porter, had been in charge of the family business until his death some ten years earlier. Helen and her son lived at the big house with Grey and Carlotta, the four of them all that remained of the powerful and influential Brandons. Now there was another Brandon, nervous and apprehensive about the reception she would receive. Would they like me? Would they think me an intruder, an opportunist? I wished Grey were poor. I wished he had no family at all.

Hands in his pockets, Grey sauntered over to me, stepping over coils of rope and moving around barrels of salted fish. He looked glorious, a husky Adonis with golden hair and a wide, friendly grin. I still found it hard to believe that I was actually his wife. Watching my husband approach, I felt a warm glow of happiness spread through me, and some of my apprehension vanished. Everything would be all right. Grey would see to it.

“Impressive place, isn't it?” he said, indicating the cannery with a nod of his head.

“It's very—large.”

“Largest cannery on the coast. More than five hundred employees, half of them from the island. A boat brings them over in the morning, takes them back in the afternoon. Incidentally, all the big fishing vessels dock here at the cannery. The boats you see at the island are just small craft, privately owned.”

“How many boats does your family have?”

“Fishing boats? Twenty or so, I'd guess. Evan could tell you. He's the businessman in the family. I don't have much to do with the boats or the cannery. By choice, I might add. I'm afraid you've married a lazy man, Carolyn. I glance at the books once in a while, but I'm perfectly content to let Evan run things. He enjoys it; gives him a sense of power. I'd much rather loaf.”

He was jesting, of course; playing the charming, irresponsible chap for my benefit. I found it endearing.

Grey took my hand and we strolled to the end of the pier, past four enormous boats that looked like gigantic beached whales, black and gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Our luggage was stacked in a neat heap, my battered suitcases looking pathetic beside Grey's expensive leather bags. The cannery was far behind us now, the clanging din muted by distance. The wind blowing in from over the water brought a sharp tang of salt, driving away some of the smell of fish and tar. The water was steel gray, tinged with the faint bronze shadows I remembered so well. From this point we looked directly out over the ocean to a misty purplish-gray horizon several miles away. Greycliff Island was five miles farther down the coast, invisible from here.

“Burke should have been here by now,” Grey said, a slight frown between his brows.

“Burke?” I vaguely remembered the name. It had been mentioned that afternoon in the caves.

“He's our chief servant—chauffeur, butler, handyman, more like a member of the family than an employee.”

“He's been with you a long time?”

“Yes. He brought me up actually—kind of a father-substitute after my father died. Uncle Douglas was always too occupied with the business to pay much attention to me. Burke's rather intimidating on first sight, but don't let it bother you. He's really a fine fellow, if a bit severe. Looks like a broken-down prizefighter, mean and ugly. Scares hell out of all the housemaids.”

“I—I hope he likes me.”

Grey chuckled, putting an arm around my shoulders. “Couldn't help but like you,” he said breezily. “You're an adorable creature. Glad I nabbed you.”

“Are you, Grey?”

“Damned right I am. What a silly question.”

“It's just—well, our marriage was so hasty. We don't really know each other all that well.…”

“Nonsense.”

“You might be disappointed in me.”

“Never.”

Grey wrapped his strong arms tightly around my waist, pulling me back against him. Holding me in front of him, he leaned down to plant his lips on the side of my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling his hard, sturdy body against mine. My doubts and fears seemed foolish, mere nervous fancies I harbored without cause. I loved Grey with all my heart. He loved me. And that was all that mattered.

“We're going to be very, very happy, Carolyn,” he whispered. “Don't ever doubt it. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. I intend to spend the rest of my life showing my gratitude.”

A few minutes later we saw a bright speck gleaming on the water far away, growing larger and larger as it skimmed over the waves like a frenzied insect. The motorboat was much larger than the one I remembered from my trip with Evan Porter. It was glistening tan and white, streamlined, exquisite, trailing a wake of foamy white behind it as it sped toward the pier. Drawing nearer, it slowed, the powerful motor humming low. Although he waved, although there was a smile on his lips, Grey was tense. I could sense it. His smile was tight, artificial; a tiny muscle at his temple throbbed. The boat was skillfully pulled up alongside the pier, and the man at the helm tossed a rope to Grey.

As Grey secured the rope to a pole, the man climbed out of the launch and stepped onto the pier. Around forty, he wore a neatly tailored black broadcloth uniform that fit his large, stocky body a bit too tightly. The nap of the cloth was smooth with age, shiny from too many cleanings. The jacket strained across broad, powerful shoulders. His short black hair was grizzled with gray, and his tanned, weathered face was deeply creased. His lips were thin, the mouth cynical. Pulling off his dark glasses, he greeted Grey with stiff formality and ignored me completely. Burke was undeniably ugly, but his ravaged face and tall, solid body would be perversely attractive to many women. There was an aura of icy coldness about him that struck me immediately, and I felt that this man would be able to commit acts of cruelty with total indifference. I found it hard not to draw back as those glowering black eyes peered at me.

“This the wife?” he asked. His deep voice was harsh, slightly raspy, exactly the kind of voice one would expect him to have.

“This is the wife,” Grey replied. “Have you ever seen a lovelier girl, Burke?”

“H—hello,” I stammered.

Burke ignored my greeting. “Help me with the luggage,” he said curtly. “We've got to get back to the island.”

As the men stacked the luggage on the launch, I tried not to let the servant's coldness bother me. I remembered what Grey had told me about him. Perhaps my first impression would wear off. Perhaps I would actually find him friendly as I grew to know him. I doubted it. Something about him made my skin prickle. He resented me, and he made no effort to conceal it. He had been deplorably rude, and I couldn't help but be offended that Grey hadn't reprimanded him for it. Despite his nonchalant manner and forced smiles, Grey seemed as intimidated by the man as I was. Why? After all, Burke was merely a servant … wasn't he? True, he had helped raise Grey, but it was almost as though he had some kind of hold over him. I didn't like the way he had ordered Grey to help with the luggage in that hard, no-nonsense tone of voice.

Back at the helm, Burke put the wraparound sunglasses back on and started the motor. I sat at the back of the boat, and Grey stood beside Burke, talking to him in a low voice as we moved away from the pier. In minutes we were soaring over the water, the launch bouncing and thumping, a fine spray splashing over me. My hair blew wildly, and I had to hold my skirt down to keep it from billowing. I could see the cannery growing smaller, a bulky gray blur in the distance now, surrounded by smaller black blurs—the fishing vessels. The coastline was magnificent: savage waves lashing at gigantic rocks; tall gray cliffs rising over lonely stretches of beach; the woods above dark green, occasionally thinning to reveal part of a village. There was a rugged grandeur about this part of the country, a harsh, rough-hewn beauty that was almost frightening. We passed an ancient brownstone lighthouse jutting out on a craggy promontory, and, a short while later, my pulses quickened.

I could see the cove, exactly as I remembered it. Something old and only half-understood stirred within me. I recalled my childhood fantasies, my grief, and I could almost see the skinny little girl sitting on one of the rocks, her homely young face grave, her mud-colored braids coming undone in the wind. The island had been an imaginary haven to her, but that illusion had been destroyed in the caves. How many other illusions would be destroyed? Was my adult happiness an illusion? Would it survive on Greycliff Island?

You're going off the deep end, Carolyn, I scolded myself. You're letting nervous apprehension get the best of you. Everything is going to be all right. Everything is going to be wonderful.… I pushed a dark chestnut wave from my eyes, trying to get hold of myself.

I had never mentioned that day at the cove to Grey. There had never been any occasion to, and for some reason I didn't want him to know that I remembered something that he had so obviously forgotten. As far as my husband was concerned, we had met for the first time in the book shop that rainy afternoon not six weeks ago. I peered at him, so handsome in his sweater, so healthy and robust. He was still talking to Burke, stressing some point with a fierce gesture. He was frowning, his expression half angry, half worried. Burke stared straight ahead, his face in profile, inscrutable as he steered the launch. The motor roared, drowning out Grey's words, but I could tell that his voice was raised, seemingly in protest. What was he saying? Why did he look so upset?

We were heading directly for the island now. It gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, the village as picturesque as I remembered it, the pines beyond rising up in steep levels. I could see a part of the roof of the big house, a mere patch of dull red from this distance. I would be living in that house. Among strangers. London was so far away. Ellie and our shabby, comfortable flat seemed so distant. I felt a nervous tremor in the pit of my stomach. If only Grey were sitting beside me, holding my hand, I wouldn't feel so timorous, so afraid.

“Hey, snap out of it,” Grey said, laughing. “We're here.”

Immersed in my thoughts, I had been unaware of our arrival. The launch rested beside the pier, knocking gently against the wooden pilings. The motor was no longer running. Grey seized my hand and smiled a broad, reassuring smile. Had I only imagined his worry of a few minutes ago? He bounced onto the pier, pulling me up beside him. I felt much better now, comforted by his smile, his energetic movements. This was the man I knew and loved. The other, the tense, nervous stranger smiling a forced smile, was a Grey I didn't know.

“How do you like the car?” he inquired, pointing to an ancient but gleaming brown and tan Rolls-Royce parked a few yards away. “It's the only car on the island, incidentally. The villagers have no use for automobiles, though most of them own boats.”

“It's gorgeous,” I said. “I've never been in a Rolls.”

“Carlotta's pride and joy, though it's been years since she's set foot in it. She spends most of her time in that crazy tower room, denying that an outside world exists. Hey—I guess I'd better give Burke a hand.”

As Grey and Burke began to stow the luggage in the trunk of the Rolls, I examined the waterfront. It bustled with activity. Children played noisily on the piers, tripping over coils of rope. Fishing nets hung on weathered, leaning poles. Small boats rocked in the water, their sails furled and tied to the masts. There was a smell of salt and sun-scorched canvas, and gulls circled overhead against a blue-gray sky, crying out raucously. Although the wharf was crowded and several people strolled along the street facing it, no one seemed to pay the slightest attention to us. Nevertheless, I could feel eyes peering at me furtively. Later on, I knew, my arrival would be the major topic of conversation at dinner tables and in the pub; every detail of my appearance would be discussed at great length. I felt strangely exposed as I stood there beside the boat.

While the waterfront was flooded with sunlight, the village beyond was in shadow. I saw the pub, its yellow paint peeling, its wooden doors swinging as a man in a bulky navy blue pea jacket stepped inside. There was a post office, a bank, even a Woolworth's, all the shop fronts gray or brown or mellowed tan, festooned with faded white gingerbread woodwork. The village was much larger than it looked from afar, several narrow side streets winding up behind this main one, all of them cobbled. Treètops towered up over dusty red brick chimneys and sooty smoke pots, and I glimpsed a church with a burnished copper spire.

I could see a cinema on one of the side streets, the marquee announcing a Michael Caine epic that had played in London two years before. Although Greycliff Village was undoubtedly a thriving modern community, there was a strong nineteenth-century flavor. With the exception of a few touches like the cinema and Woolworth's, it could hardly have changed much since the days of Queen Victoria. There were no automobiles, for one thing; no parking meters. No gaudy signs were posted. The clash and clangor of the twentieth century seemed to be missing. Shrouded in late-afternoon shadow, the village had an atmosphere of age, yet there was none of the warmth usually associated with quaintness. This was a cold place, unfriendly to outsiders. I sensed that immediately.