The Lady of Lyon House (10 page)

Molly was an earthy little thing, bright and observant. Living on the farm as she did, associating with the rowdy country folk, she had probably known at the age of ten more than I knew even now. I frowned. She had immediately sensed my attraction to Edward Lyon, and she seemed to think it delightful.

“I don't think you need to worry about the other woman,” she said, an impish grin on her lips.

“Why should I worry about her in the first place?”

“
I
wouldn't know.”

“I've only just met Mr. Lyon,” I said irritably. “Besides, he's ten years older than I am.”

“Really? Twenty-eight. That's so old?”

“You're being impudent,” I snapped.

“I know. It's awful, isn't it. Pa says I should have been born a mute. That's a pretty dress, Miss Julia,” she said, changing the subject. “The color goes so well with your hair. You look like an angel.”

The dress was bright yellow printed with tiny brown flowers. It had a very full skirt, a tight waist and puffed sleeves that dropped slightly off the shoulder. It was a young girl's dress. I stood before the mirror and turned around slowly, observing myself. I was no longer a young girl. I was a woman. The child with the puppets had vanished. Everything was different. I felt a pang of sadness, thinking of all that was lost. I wanted to run away from this new role, to hold my puppets and smile at the painted faces and feel secure in the world of innocence they represented. But I had put the puppets in their box and closed the lid. It seemed now that I had closed the lid on so much more.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. I stepped to the balcony. The sky was a solid mass of gray clouds, black on the horizon, and the wind was tormenting the trees and shrubs in the gardens. The evergreens bent and swayed, dark green, seemingly alive and protesting the wind. It was going to rain. The weather matched my mood of vague depression, and I went downstairs with a slight frown on my brow. I wondered if Corinne had come in yet.

The lower floor seemed deserted. Far back in the kitchen regions I could hear the sound of servants preparing breakfast, but the rooms here were all empty. I wandered through them, feeling sad. Edward Lyon was probably still in bed. Corinne was out riding in the wind. I stepped into the parlor, lingering by the door. A vase of fresh white roses sat on a table, and I touched the petals, veined with gold. I heard a noise across the room and looked up to see a strange woman staring at me. She seemed as startled as I.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I—I am Julia Meredith.”

“Oh, Corinne's little guest. I had forgotten you were to come. I frequently forget things. Do you know who I am?”

“You are Agatha Crandall.”

“Right. I suppose they've told you all about me.”

“Why—”

“Come, come, child. There's no need to be coy.”

“They told me you were Mrs. Lvon's companion.”

“Right. That I am—or was. You are very young.”

“I am eighteen,” I said, somewhat stiffly.

“Nonsense. No one is that young.”

“I shall not argue with you, Mrs. Crandall.”

“Good. Come closer. I want to see you.”

I stepped forward, hesitantly. There was something about the woman that intimidated me. She was old and sharp, standing there sternly with magnificent posture. Her bright blue eyes were intense, and her hair was worn in rather girlish ringlets that fell in a cascade at the back of her head. It must once have been a lustrous black. Now it was streaked with silver. Her face was thin, sharp, with deep hollows beneath the cheekbones. I could see tiny purple veins in the skin that stretched over the sharp bones—the drinker's curse. Her lips were thin and pale, held tightly together now as she stared at me. She wore a robe of violet velvet. The nap of the velvet was shiny, and the lace at the throat and wrists was slightly brownish with age.

“You're pretty,” she said tartly. “Too pretty. So was the other one.”

“Other one?”

“Don't ask questions! That's the privilege of the very old. I am very old, as you can plainly see. Do I frighten you?”

“Not a bit,” I replied.

“Then stand up straight and stop looking down at the floor. Why have you come here?”

“Mrs. Lvon invited me.”

“Tut! I want the real reason.”

“That's the only reason. She was kind enough to ask me.”

“So they've involved you in this little charade, have they? A pity. You look so innocent.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't you?” Her intense blue eyes looked into mine, searching. I felt uncomfortable under the hard gaze, but I did not look away. After a moment she said, pressing the thin lips tightly together.

“Perhaps you don't,” she said. “I shall have to keep my eye on you just the same. You behave yourself, hear me? I could be wrong—yes, I could be wrong.”

“About what?”

“Never you mind. Just behave.”

She was talking in riddles. I could not understand what her strange words meant. I remembered that she drank large quantities of liquor, and although she did not appear to be intoxicated at the moment her brain was probably fuddled by the alcohol. She stood staring at me, her eyes full of something that I could not properly identify. Mischief? Perhaps. The old woman looked very mischievous. She would probably avoid any real trouble, but I thought she probably relished a good scrap. I could not dislike her, just as I could not dislike a troublesome child, and that is what she reminded me of.

The front door slammed loudly, and in a moment Corinne came storming into the room. She was wearing the outfit her nephew had described to me, the tan riding habit, the hat with the billowing moss green veil. The veil half concealed her heavily made up face, and it swept behind her now as she entered the room. She brought an air of electricity with her. The room seemed to be charged with tempestuous vitality. She stopped and stared when she saw me standing there with Agatha Crandall. She did not look at all pleased.

“You're up?” she snapped, addressing Agatha.

“Yes, dear,” Agatha said. I noted the acid tone of her voice. She smiled at Corinne, and the smile was malicious.

“That surprises me,” Corinne said, her own voice far from sweet.

“Really?”

“Yes. It surprises me that you were able.” She emphasized the last word.

“Everyone seems to exaggerate my drinking,” Agatha remarked. “It may be a small vice, but at least it doesn't
hurt
anyone. I could think of a lot worse things a person could do.”

“What do you mean?” Corinne demanded.

“Tut, my dear. Have I scored?”

They stood glaring at each other. I could feel the animosity. It was like being in the room with two cats, both holding back, both arched and ready to let fly with fang and claw. Corinne jerked off her hat and threw it across the room, the veil fluttering wildly. It landed on the sofa. Agatha lifted an eyebrow and smiled her superior smile. It was evident that these two women could not stand each other, and I wondered why Corinne kept Agatha at Lyon House, that being the case.

“What has she been saying to you?” Corinne asked me.

I started to reply, but Agatha Crandall spoke up before I could get the words out.

“Nothing, dear. Nothing at all. Just little pleasantries. Nothing else—yet.”

“If you dare—”

“No, dear,' don't fly into one of your rages. You
know
how they upset you.” She spoke in the dulcet tones of the paid companion. “You would just have to spend the rest of the day in bed and take some of your nasty medicine. Besides, you know they're absolutely meaningless with me. Save them for someone they will impress.”

Corinne was smoldering, her dark eyes full of anger. I thought she was going to hurl something at the other woman, but she managed to control herself. Her mouth twitched and she clenched her hands. She whirled around, her back to Agatha Crandall. Her shoulders trembled.

“There, there,” Agatha said. “That's better. You know how these rages affect you. At
your
age you simply must avoid them. You work yourself into such a frenzy, such a frenzy, and for no purpose.”

“Why don't you go open another bottle, Agatha,” Corinne said, the words full of rancor.

“Oh, I don't think so, dear. I don't think so. Now that Julia is here I believe I will abstain for a while. I must keep sharp and alert. You never know—” Her voice faded off, but the smile remained. She had the look of one with a great secret, bursting to tell it yet refraining because of the power it gave her.

Agatha Crandall left the room, very satisfied with herself. Corinne stood at the window, mastering her rage. I was embarrassed. I was completely bewildered by the ugly scene and did not know what to say now that I was alone with Corinne. I was upset; the peace and harmony I had first felt at Lyon House had been rudely disturbed.

“That woman is intolerable!” Corinne cried, turning to face me. “She is wretched when she's drunk, of course, but when she's sober she's even worse! Wretched, wretched woman!”

“Surely she meant no harm,” I said.

“Meant no harm! The old harridan would love to upset everything!”

“If you feel so strongly about it, why don't you get rid of her?”

“I might,” Corinne said, her eyes snapping. “I just might! She can't treat me like that—”

Corinne saw my expression, and she calmed herself. She picked up the hat and held it in her arms, the moss green veil sweeping the floor. Corinne enjoyed scenes, and she no doubt derived great satisfaction from her eccentric tantrums and the confusion they caused, but she had not enjoyed the scene with Agatha Crandall, nor had her emotion been simulated. Her shoulders slumped now, and there was a look of concern in her dark eyes.

“What did she really say to you?” she asked. “You stay away from her,” Corinne said. “She's a wicked old woman who loves to stir up trouble. She finds life unbearable, so she spends most of her time trying to make it unbearable for everyone else. She resents me because I had been kind to her and tried to help her. That's what always happens when you are good to someone. Why I put up with her I don't know.”

Edward Lyon came sauntering into the room, his hair mussed and his face still showing signs of sleep. He wore a brown velvet smoking jacket with his black trousers and a pair of soft brown leather slippers. When he saw Corinne's expression he stopped and shook his head. Then he made as if to make a hasty retreat.

“Another of those mornings,” he said, grinning.

“Agatha,” Corinne said, as if the one word explained everything.

“I see,” Edward Lyon said. He looked at me and lifted an eyebrow. “Has Agatha been bothering you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“She's been babbling again,” Corinne said, “telling this child Heaven only knows what kind of nonsense! We are going to have to find a way to stop her. We are simply going to have to do something, Edward. I can't take any more of this!”

“Do you think so?” he asked casually.

“Yes. The woman is impossible!”

“Very well,” he said, “don't get into a stew about it. We'll work something out. Now I suggest we all have breakfast. I saw Cook going into the dining room with the most marvelous plate of biscuits.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Corinne cried.

“Yes, dear, at least for the moment. I'm hungry.”

“You're as bad as she is!”

“We abound with passion here,” Edward Lyon said to me. “You will find it most invigorating.”

Corinne was sulky all during the meal, and Agatha Crandall sat with her peculiar little smile, hardly touching her food. I had no appetite myself, and only Edward Lyon ate heartily. He buttered the biscuits and spread them with strawberry jam. He was obviously quite accustomed to these scenes and clearly did not intend to let them ruffle him. He was immune to his aunt's moods and enjoyed his breakfast as much as he would have had all been peaceful accord.

Shortly after breakfast it began to rain, pouring in great blinding sheets, and making the world outside a whirling mass of gray. The rain splashed against the windows, and the house was so dark that we had to light the lamps. Agatha Crandall went up to her room, and Corinne sat in the parlor, brooding over a deck of cards. She clearly did not want company, so I avoided her. Edward Lyon talked to me for a little while and promised to take me for a canoe ride tomorrow. He went off to work on some accounts, and I found myself alone.

I wandered into the library, searching for a book. I finally took down one of Dickens' novels and curled up on the sofa. The curtains were parted and I could see the rain splashing against the glass. I tried to read, but even Mr. Dickens was no comfort now. I could not concentrate. I looked at the walls of beautifully bound volumes, the lamp light glimmering on their gilt titles. There was an enormous gray marble fireplace with tall black andirons and screen, enormous chairs covered with green leather, as was the sofa. A beautifully varnished globe of gold and red and brown stood on a revolving stand. It was a comfortable room, but I felt no comfort. I could not forget the ugly scene this morning. I had the feeling that it concerned something far more important than anything either woman had said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE GARDENS
were lovely, bathed now in sunlight that fell in glittering white rays from a silver-gray sky. I strolled down the neat flagstone path, stopping to admire a bed of vivid blue gentians, walking on to see a bed of pink and purple geraniums. The path twisted and turned among the beds. I walked under arches of white trellis that held small pink roses. The fragrance was overwhelming, heady. I closed my eyes to savor it better. Even though it was three miles to the sea, I could smell the salty tang in the air. It was a glorious day, and it seemed incredible now that yesterday had been so grim and gray and depressing. The rain had washed everything clean, and the sunlight made everything sharp and bright.