Wheel of Stars (2 page)

As she reached the foot of the mound she discovered she must again look up to meet his eyes. Tall as was Lady Lyle, this man of her family was even taller. For the first time in her life Gwennan felt oddly small, somehow fleetingly like another person—as if this was a shadow of another meeting with one in complete command so purposefully disturbing. Approaching him she felt she was closing in upon something, in its way, as strange and hidden as the stone which had drawn and centered all her innermost curiosity for so long. Yet this was a man—flesh and blood, standing very much at his ease.

“Gwennan Daggert.” Again he spoke her name, only something in the sound of those two words was not right. The girl felt as if he spoke them in another language, accented them wrong—was trying so to—She shook her head at such a fantasy, or thought that she did.

“You are addicted to dawn walks, then?” His mocking smile grew more pronounced. “Even in this weather?” Now he gave an exaggerated shiver. “You are a hardy people, of course, you Downeasterners.”

Gwennan possessed firm self control once more—safely back in the mold Miss Nessa had formed. “We tend to be.” She had, she hoped, mastered any sign of that momentary uneasiness which had troubled her. “If I wish to walk it must be early in the day. I have a job.” She held up her wrist, peeled back the cuff of her mitten to consult her watch, “and—”

His brows, several shades darker than the hair, which was more and more impossibly golden as the sun began its slow rise, lifted a fraction. “What kind of a job which begins at this hour? It is not too far past dawn—”

“Late enough for me to be on my way.” Her reply was short, curt. She might be unduly rude but she could no longer control that shadowy emotion she did not understand. The uneasiness which spread from him to lap about her grew ever stronger. That there was a second Lyle, unknown to the town, was strange in itself. There had never been any talk of Lady Lyle’s having a son—or was this man within the age range to be her son? Gwennan thought she was no good judge of that.

A strange Lyle—still that mere fact should not produce such a feeling in her. One of—fear? What had she to be truly afraid of? She trespassed here, that was true. However, merely walking across a field to watch the sun rise between three stones—that was no crime. She had disturbed nothing, done nothing. Why did she feel guilty, threatened—as if he had some good reason to mistrust her?

“To where?” Still he smiled.

She
had
been right—there
was
a mocking note
in his voice. He appeared to find her amusing. Gwennan stiffened. That curl of fear was swept away by a flash of inner anger. She decidedly did not like this man. Just as she admired Lady Lyle, so, in the same measure, she disliked this relative of hers—no matter what relationship he might bear to the mistress of Lyle House.

“To the library.” No reason to make any secret of who she was or her own life. The town was close-knit—more so in winter when the few summer folk were gone, and those of the old families drew together, inhabiting, in a way, a fortress against what might be a blasting season.

“The library?”

Again he picked up her words, a habit she was beginning to find irritating. She swiftly chose to foster that irritation as a kind of barrier against any other emotions he stirred to life within her. “But surely that does not open so early. I believe my aunt said noon on most days. I know she is planning to visit you later today—”

“There is always plenty of work to be done even when we are not officially open,” Gwennan returned primly.

She was almost tempted, in order to prove to him how very ordinary and normal was life (now
why,
another part of her demanded, was this necessary?) by listing all those numerous small tasks which were really never quite finished no matter how one labored. Also she was hungry—a single cup of coffee drunk in haste in the dark while standing by the kitchen stove was not her usual breakfast. She fully intended to stop at the side door of Mary Long’s bakery for some blueberry muffins—to be toasted and enjoyed for a
quiet hour while she read a waiting pile of professional journals.

“Ah, yes, work to employ idle hands which one hears of—though not so much these days. It would seem that Waterbridge keeps to the old ethic. Good—or bad.” He made her a small mock bow, yet he did not move from directly before her. Short of shoving him out of her path, or making a very noticeable sidestep, she had to remain where she was. Gwennan was debating that latter choice when his hand darted out toward her head.

Instinctively she ducked, then flushed when she saw the leaf caught between two of his fingers. For all his talk of the cold he did not seem to feel the bite of the weather unduly, for, in addition to his bare head, he wore no gloves, and the front of his knee-length coat hung unbuttoned. Once more he laughed.

“What are you afraid of, Gwennan Daggert?” He took a fraction of a step closer. To her mortification, the girl moved hurriedly back. There was nothing but good humor in his expression as he held up the leaf, twirling it about on the small stem.

“I assure you,” he continued, “I do not eat little girls, not even when I find them where they are not invited. Little girls who wear leaves on their heads—as if they are dryads or nymphs—”

This was a kind of teasing to which she could not respond. What made her freeze, feel awkward and uncomfortable? It appeared to her to be mainly his overt mockery. Again anger warmed her.

“I certainly do not suppose,” she put into her
voice all the icy reserve she had learned from Miss Nessa, “that you do. I am well aware that I am a trespasser. As such, please accept my apologies, Mr. Lyle. It will not, I assure you, happen again!”

No, it could not, she told herself. Yet how could she make herself stay away from that tantalizing stone, the riddle which would not let her go? She longed to glance up over her shoulder at the finger of the middle rock, yet she felt that to do so would in some manner let him know—learn—in a way invade what was entirely her own.

He dropped the leaf. Again his hand moved, this time he grasped her right wrist, imprisoning it in a hold she thought that she would not be able to break even if she struggled—which pride would not allow her to do. While he never stopped smiling with those thin lips. Still, deep in his eyes, there was something else which denied any lightness to that smile. Gwennan did not want to understand what lay behind that shadow—she only wanted free of him. But she would not struggle to throw off his hold.

Then his voice changed. It became deeper, harsher, as if he strove to put into it the power of some imperious command:

“What
were
you doing here? Did
she
—?” The tip of his tongue flicked across his lower lip. “What does
she
want with
you?
” There was a distinct flare of scorn in that. He loomed over her almost as if he were growing before her very eyes, becoming larger, something greater and stronger than the man she had first seen. No, she must not let her imagination range that way!

“I have not the least idea,” Gwennan sought to retain her composure, “of what you mean. If the ‘she’ you mention is Lady Lyle—”

“
Lady!
” He broke in, and it seemed to the girl that his dark skin grew even darker, as if blood flooded close beneath its surface. “Lady!” He made of that word something which sounded both an epithet and a protest.

“Mrs. Lyle, then,” she corrected. “The town has always used ‘Lady’ as a term of respect—it is a tradition for your family. A tribute this time, I imagine, to the impression she makes upon people. But, at any rate, I do not understand you. I do not know her at all. All we have ever spoken of, and that was most briefly, was books—and the first time for that was last Thursday. She has only recently been coming to the library, at all.

“As for
my
being here,” Gwennan was at last emboldened to give a quick jerk which freed her wrist, taking two quick steps to the side, “that is also a simple matter which has nothing at all to do with your family. I walk often in the early mornings—especially at this time of the year. And I like the woods—”

His demanding eyes swept from her to the mound. Almost as if in that glance he said aloud he had not found her in the woods, rather in a place which, for some reason, was not to be invaded. At that moment Gwennan would have willingly suffered any mockery, or even anger which he wished to summon, rather than ever tell him what had really brought her here. That would remain her secret—one which perhaps she would never be able to solve if the tall stones now became
forbidden territory.

“And now, good morning, Mr. Lyle.” She turned abruptly, strode firmly away, not looking back. Though she carried with her the unhappy feeling that he might be following her, determined to see her safely off Lyle land, back to that world where her kind should stay and live their quiet, narrow little lives.

“Wait—!” His raised voice was urgent. Gwennan would not run, but her walk approached a trot. She heard the swish of the grass about her legs, perhaps too loudly, it might be echoed by sounds proving that he, too, was on the move. She—was—not—going—to—run—She—was—not—

“Tor!”

Not his voice this time, rather a clear hail from farther away.

Gwennan, startled, did glance back. He
had
started after her, just as she had feared. Only that call had halted him, so that he half turned towards the mound. Out of the woods which screened all but the roof of the Lyle House, moved a tall figure wrapped in a hooded cloak. Gwennan did not need to see the face half hidden by the folds of cloth to know that this was Lady Lyle.

Embarrassment made her hot. She had been unhappy at being subtly challenged by the younger Lyle, but to be seen here by Lady Lyle—that was even worse. To be caught acting like a spy! She frankly took to her heels, pausing only in her dash when she came to the wall over which she must climb to reach the lane. On the other side of that barrier she halted, forced herself to
wait until her heart stopped beating so fast, rubbing her mittens across her face, wondering why she was shaking so. This whole encounter seemed to have a serious meaning which she did not understand. She swallowed twice and started towards town at a brisk but steady pace, trying to concentrate on the day ahead and not what was immediately behind her.

Still all morning, though Gwennan strove to occupy herself only with what was to be done, her thoughts showed an unfortunate tendency to wander. She had to resolutely keep her back to the shelf of those books which were her own private research materials. She
had
seen those markings. That fact was far more important than the disturbing meeting with Mr. Lyle. Was he going to remain at Lyle House? If so, would she ever have another chance to complete her own investigations at the stone? The swing from hope to disappointment made her more unhappy than she could ever remember before. She might have been bodily pulled out of her neat little shell of a life, in which she had always been so sheltered and comfortable. Now she was being made to venture into the strange and unknown which she had always shunned, unless it lay on the printed page where it could be safely confined and enclosed when one wanted no more of brain-taxing questions and speculations for awhile.

Gwennan sat at her desk and found herself drawing over and over those strange lines which curved or hooked (were they subconsciously remembered from the morning’s half sighting—or just what her imagination was offering her?). She
crumpled the paper, threw it forcibly into the waste basket, then made herself select the books for the school class due in this afternoon.

Yet memory clung. She felt a prickling of skin, an unease, as if some dreaded action lay before her. Though she sternly told herself that this was a very stupid piece of self-delusion, as she would eventually prove.

Gwennan unlocked the library door promptly at twelve-thirty for old Mr. Staines who shuffled with a grunt of greeting to his chosen chair near the register. There followed a flurry of children on their way back to school. Her attention was fully captured by their demands. A half hour later Lady Lyle came in, her slim body muffled in that same soft dark green-gray cloak she had worn in the early morning. In the full light of the room Gwennan could see the hollows in the older woman’s pale cheeks, making more prominent her well-formed nose, and the ridges of delicate bones. She looked more fragile than the girl had remembered her from only the week before. Had she been ill? Still she walked as firmly as ever, held herself proudly erect. Was she coming to face Gwennan with the sin of trespassing?

However, she spoke with a note of warmth the girl had not expected:

“It seems odd after all these years not to see Miss Nessa,” she said. They might have been friends, comfortable in a long-held relationship.
Still those smiling lips were blueish—was she perhaps a heart patient—? Though who really knew anything about the Lyles? Now she produced a list, holding it out to Gwennan.

“I cannot hope, I fear, to find any of these on the shelves, they are perhaps too specialized in subject matter. However, Miss Nessa once told me that there exists a system of ordering books from other libraries, to be read on loan—”

Gwennan studied the spiky writing which at first glance seemed almost to be in some foreign language, until under close examination it became more intelligible. As she read, her first faint uneasiness strengthened. Was this list a subtle method of informing her that she had not only been discovered trespassing, but that the reason for her morning invasion of Lyle land had been guessed? She made herself pick up her pen and check four of the six lines on that scrap of paper.

“These are already here—on loan. It may be possible to extend that—”

“How very fortunate!”

Was she being subtly baited? Best make sure by confession on her own to bring matters at once to a head.

“They are a personal order—for me.”

She dared to look directly at the other’s worn face. There was nothing of that covert mockery which had shown so clearly in the young man’s expression. Instead there was something of eagerness in the large eyes above dark smudges which gave the impression of weariness or ill health.

“You are interested then in such discoveries? But that is good! Though I have known many queer corners of the earth I was not aware until recently that there have been more such things recently brought to light—or at least into print.

“It could mean—” she hesitated, still staring so intently at Gwennan that the girl felt this woman was silently demanding from her some answer which she needed—needed, more than just desired. “What was your opinion of this particular one?” she asked abruptly, sharply, requiring an answer, even as an instructor might have done from a shy pupil. She leaned forward, making Gwennan aware of a strong spicy fragrance, and with her gloved finger pointed to the third title on the list.

“The one about the leys, and the possibility that such reported monsters as Nessie, and even UFOs might be associated with those?” Gwennan fended off a direct answer as she strove to make up her mind. She never discussed her private reading with anyone. The Lyles were noted travelers, citizens of the world at large. They represented such knowledge as could not be matched by anyone else Gwennan knew. “The authors,” she continued clearly, “appear to make out something of a case in favor of that point—though they do not commit themselves to any of the several conclusions they offer at the end of the book. They leave you a choice.”

“After stating known facts,” Lady Lyle nodded. “I wish I could talk with those two young people—really talk. But what do you think? Which choice was yours? You surely have thought of
what you read.”

Gwennan braced herself. Here it was coming—the questions, or perhaps the rebuke—for her early morning visit. Only that did not seem to interest Lady Lyle at all. Instead she was adding:

“You were the one who went backpacking to hunt standing stones. Mr. Stevens mentioned that his daughter spoke of it—”

Gwennan flushed. A summer ago when she had so longed to be able to talk to someone, she had half forgotten the penalty for being “different.” Yes, she had spoken to Nancy Stevens one day when the book which had inspired her own single and very amateurish attempt at discovery had lain open on her desk and the other girl had appeared to show enough interest to ask a question or two. She had learned her lesson when a garbled account of her “stone hunting” had drifted back to her. Just another of the freakish differences which had cut her off from the town.

“Yes,” Gwennan answered shortly, all her defenses up at once. “And I also trespassed. I have visited your standing stones.”

“What do you think of them? That they are just rocks planted by the glaciers, as most authorities have assured us?”

Just as anger had given her the courage to face up to that other Lyle, so did determination give her the courage not to be overpowered by this one or forced into dismissing lightly what she did believe was the truth. Let them both laugh at her if they wished.

“No, I think they were set there for a purpose.”

“I know they were.” Lady Lyle had dropped her
voice, those four words uttered hardly above a whisper. “Such things have fascinated me for many years. Perhaps you would care to discuss the subject further when there are no interruptions. This is very short notice—rude perhaps—but would you care to come and have dinner with me tonight?”

Gwennan hoped she had outward possession enough not to show her utter astonishment. As far as she knew only two of the townspeople ever visited Lyle House—Mr. Stevens, whose legal practice sent him there at intervals, and a Mr. Warren, a summer visitor nearly as reclusive as the Lyles themselves, reputed to be a writer and collector of books.

She swallowed and then held firmly to her newly found boldness. “I would be very pleased. These books,” she turned and swept them off the shelf behind her desk, “I was going to return them in the Friday delivery. But I shall call this afternoon and ask the loan extended for two weeks. At the same time I shall order the others—”

“Thank you.” Lady Lyle nodded as if something momentous had never happened at all—as if it were very usual that the village librarian be personally invited to a house which had been a mystery for generations. “We dine at seven. My—my young kinsman will call for you.”

“Oh, no!” Gwennan was jarred out of her carefully built shell. “I mean—there is no need for that. I am used to walking and certainly it is not far.”

The tall woman no longer smiled. Her eyes
were still searching—watching Gwennan closely from under the shadow of the hood she had just adjusted to cover her head once again. “You do not find walking after dark in the lane disturbing?”

Gwennan laughed. “Of course not! Everyone walks, especially with gas prices as high as they are now. Anyway I do not have a car—”

Lady Lyle smiled once more. “But, of course. The frugal life—waste not, want not. In this modern world that is refreshing. Very well, if that is what you wish. Only, Miss Daggert, I would suggest that you do keep to the lanes—to cross fields in the early dark—”

Gwennan’s hands tightened on the paper with the list. A mild way of commenting on her trespass? She must keep to her resolution of the morning then—no more visits to the stones—no matter how strongly they seemed to draw her. The Lyles need never again fear she would intrude upon their territory.

“The lanes, yes,” she made careful answer. “They have—”

“No traps.” She was astounded at that odd comment. Lady Lyle added nothing to that. Sweeping up the books, she had turned and gone, before the girl could thank her.

In Gwennan, surprise at that unlooked-for and abrupt invitation turned to an eagerness which she had not expected as the day passed. Lyle House was said to display a number of treasures brought back from the many journeys of the family. Stevens had several times spoken of it as
a veritable museum. She longed to see that for herself. But she eyed her small wardrobe with open dissatisfaction when it came time to dress.

For all she knew the Lyles might live as formally as those rare and strange creatures she had viewed in some of the magazines the summer people donated to the library at intervals. She had only one good suit, no dress really suitable for such an occasion.

Now she zipped up the plaid skirt, tucked in the too-often-wandering tails of the blouse, and shrugged on the velvet jacket which was her one extravagance, meant to do duty for years to come. The soft material was of a warm rust shade she delighted in, and she smoothed its sleeves before she applied her finishing touch—fastening down the small frill at the blouse throat with the cameo which Miss Nessa had left her.

By six the daylight had already deepened into dusk. When she set out at half past that hour Gwennan put her flashlight into the deep pocket of her outer coat. She was glad of her boots, and as the wind plucked at the edge of her skirt she wished she had a long cloak like Lady Lyle’s.

Miss Nessa’s house was on the edge of the slowly growing town. Once it had been a farm dwelling. There were no street lights here, and out of habit Gwennan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. So she did not use the torch yet as she followed the road. Any traffic this far out was limited, and she could easily hear a car coming.

The paved street changed abruptly into a narrower road which had been surfaced when the Lyles brought the first motor car into Water-bridge
at the time of Gwennan’s grandmother. Though the air was crisp the night sky was clouded over, perhaps enough to dull the full moon which should be rising soon. The girl thought fleetingly, as she scuffed through the drifts of leaves, that it would be interesting to view the standing stones by moonlight. Somehow she had never visited the mound by night, now she wondered why—when it was too late to try such a venture.

She had nearly reached the two tall pillars marking the turnoff to the woods-hidden house itself when Gwennan became aware of a difference in the shadowed land. The night was unusually still. No wind now swept through the long weeds along the ditch, nor tumbled fallen leaves. There were no bird calls. The silence seemed almost to press in upon one. In her pocket her hand closed about the rod of the torch.

But she pushed away that rising uneasiness. There was certainly no reason to feel this way. She had walked this road many times, both night and day. Right before her was the entrance to the Lyle drive. A few steps along that and she would see the house which was not there masked by bushes—just a few more steps.

Out of the dark puffed a fetid stench, powerful enough to hit her like a blow. Not a skunk—no. This was stronger, more vile than anything she had met before. Putrid uncleanliness narrowed into an invisible blast which could have been aimed directly at her. She gagged, and, for a horrified second or two, thought she was going to be violently ill.

Something dead—?

Gwennan brought out her flashlight, thumbed its button. The beam of bright radiance made her blink as she pointed it down the private road. Striving not to breathe too deeply of that foulness the girl hurried on. Nor did she look from one side to the other, refusing to give way to any touch of fear.

The stench was lessening at last. She must have passed its source. This was the hunting season, and, though the Lyle’s land was posted, there were always careless hunters who wounded an animal and did not follow, so that their victim stumbled on to die painfully and lingeringly.

Yet surely the carcass of such a kill would have been found by those in the house before it reached such a state of decay. She could not understand why it had not been buried. Also—she found herself listening—though she could not have said for what. The sound of her own boots crunching gravel of the drive was all to be heard. And that—so loud a sound—too loud—Why? Gwennan’s breath came faster.

She rounded a hedge of leafless bushes, to see lighted windows ahead. Though she continued to use her torch as she neared the front door where the massive hand-wrought hinges of another day were black against aged wood. A knocker of intricate design centered the wide planks and she lifted that, unintentionally making such a clatter as to embarrass her.

The door swung open almost at once and light blazed out to enfold her—as if it alone could draw her inside. She came thus into a center hall
totally unlike any part of a dwelling she had seen before, holding so much to catch the eye that she was not aware of the one who had opened the way into such a storehouse, until he spoke.

“Miss Daggert—so you
are
a fearless explorer—daring even the night.”

It was Tor Lyle himself, of course. His golden head still appeared, even here, to draw light, glitter. She would not have believed that hair could take on such a metallic sheen. It was the more vividly alive perhaps because he wore a jacket of dark velvet over a black, turtlenecked shirt. Around his neck was a golden chain, its brilliance dimmed by that amazing hair. It supported a pendant covered with a tracery of lines so entwined that any pattern was too involved to follow without close examination.

Behind him the dark wainscoting of the hall walls was broken at intervals by niches, each of which was arched by concealed lighting to display the objects set within it. Gwennan caught glimpses of small statues, of plaques, once a strip of what was either strangely woven or embroidered fabric. This was indeed a museum!

Her host might have had the ability to read her awed thought, for he flung out one hand in an exaggerated flourish to indicate the closest of those niches. It held a slender figure of grotesque fashioning in the form of a woman whose lower limbs melted into what was clearly the rough barked column of a tree. Her upflung arms were half branch, small leaves depending from the tips of her fingers, while her long hair swirled above her head to form more strings of the same cleverly
formed leaves.