Winterwood (32 page)

“Why aren’t you asleep, too?” Lavinia asked Flora.

“Because my legs ache.”

“You used them too much today. Didn’t Doctor Munro warn you not to? The muscles are still too weak. You must be patient.”

“Miss Hurst, don’t scold! I dislike you very much when you behave like a governess.”

“Then I shall behave like a nurse. Would you like some hot milk?”

“No.”

“Then shall I rub your legs to ease them?” Lavinia began to shake Mary awake. But before the sleepy girl had stirred, Flora was saying, “Miss Hurst, what did they say downstairs tonight? Is it true Great-aunt Tameson is coming back?”

“Flora, of course not! She’s dead.”

“Edward thinks she is coming. You wouldn’t believe how quiet he’s become. He thinks she wants to punish him for playing tricks on her. Phoebe had to promise to sleep in his room. Would you believe it, a big boy like that!”

Flora was silent a moment, trying to retain her scorn. But it left her, and her voice was small. “I was not allowed to see her lying dead. Is it because—she wasn’t?”

“I saw her,” Lavinia said quietly. “She looked very peaceful and contented. Does that please you?”

“It would please me more if she were still here. I don’t really want her money or her jewels. I’d gladly give them back. I don’t need them now that I can walk.”

“No, you don’t,” Lavinia agreed. “They’re a—”

“They’re what?” Flora asked, as she paused.

She had been going to say they were a curse. And that was true. For everything had happened since the old lady had changed her will. Everything sprang from that, even this strange haunting.

“There are many things more important than wealth,” she said primly. “Now will you please lie down and go to sleep.”

“If I can have Sylvie on my bed. Then I will feel safe. She barks if anyone strange comes in.”

“Now whoever do you imagine is going to come in?”

Flora’s overstrained eyes looked up from the pillow.

“Sylvie would regard Great-aunt Tameson as a stranger, I expect.”

“Flora darling!”

To conceal her own agitation Lavinia briskly awoke Mary and sent her stumbling off to bed, then allowed the little dog, trembling with pleasure, to curl up beside Flora. Charlotte, she thought, would have appreciated Sylvie’s company that night. But Charlotte had given her treasured pet to her daughter to prove how much she loved her—even though previously it had been quite obvious to everyone that she had a passionate unbalanced affection for Edward, and no one else, especially not her crippled, plain and difficult daughter. One could not change one’s affections overnight simply because the daughter one had despised was suddenly immensely wealthy. But it might be politic for the world to think one could.

Lavinia didn’t know why her quite unproven suspicions about Charlotte came back so vividly.

But yes, she did. For today it was as if a mask had slipped from Charlotte’s face, and the haunted woman beneath it showed all too clearly.

There had always been a plot between her and Jonathon Peate. If she had received Lady Tameson’s money, he had been going to share it for some private reason. But the plan had gone badly awry and had somehow to be retrieved.

So Charlotte lavished affection on Flora, and talked to Edward of going to live in London with only him, her best-loved child, and pretended to seek the company of the man who frightened her out of her wits. All contradictory behavior.

And now, most contradictory of all, the plotters themselves were frightened. Badly frightened.

The tap on the door an hour later scared her badly. Flora had at last fallen asleep, and she herself, from sheer exhaustion, was drowsing.

But in a moment she was sitting up, and Sylvie was growling softly.

Was it Jonathon again? This was more than she could stand.

It was Daniel.

He apologized for disturbing her. He only wanted to know if everything was well.

“With Flora? She’s asleep.”

“Good. Lavinia, I want you to take her away tomorrow. I will arrange lodgings for you. Somewhere quiet. Bournemouth, perhaps. Will you do that?”

“Has something happened?”

He gave a bleak smile. He looked very tired.

“Hasn’t enough happened? No, nothing more. My wife will say nothing. Nothing at all. She merely assures me that I know as much as she does. When I point out that I am not collapsing from some secret fear, as she appears to be, she says that is merely her nervous condition. She has always been highly nervous, and a letter from the grave does nothing to improve her health.”

“There is some reason for Mr. Peate to be going to Venice. Some urgent reason. Your wife must know what that is.”

“Perhaps. Personally, any reason, no matter what it is, to get him out of my house pleases me. I should have made him leave long ago, and not listened to Charlotte’s wishes.”

“You think everything will be all right when he has gone? But you don’t, or you would not want me to take Flora away.”

“It will be good for Flora’s health.”

Lavinia put out her hand impulsively.

“Will you join us in Bournemouth?”

“Later. When we have finally ascertained who is buried in young Tom Peate’s grave.”

He had called her Lavinia again. That was the only glimmer of comfort she could get from the curiously shocking conversation.

She slept, to dream of Lady Tameson wearing all her jewels standing over her bed and demanding, in her hoarse autocratic voice, to be taken out of the cold English mud and returned to her grandeur in Venice. Then Jonathon Peate stood behind her giving his loud laugh and saying that he would take her if the weather were not too stormy, and the poor old lady screamed, awaking Lavinia to a chilly dark morning, and Flora shouting in her ear.

“Miss Hurst! You slept so soundly. I had to scream. Look, I got out of bed without help.”

The little figure in her long white nightgown was so appealing after that nightmare that Lavinia threw her arms around her.

“Bless you, little love. I’m so happy for you.”

“I’m happy, too, because Mr. Peate is leaving us. Did you know? His boxes have been carried down, Mary says. You have slept late, Miss Hurst. Hurry or you’ll be late for breakfast. You may even be too late to say goodbye to Mr. Peate!”

“And that will not break my heart, as you well know.”

Flora giggled. She seemed in high spirits.

“And I’ve also looked in Great-aunt Tameson’s room and she hasn’t come back. That was all imagination, wasn’t it?”

“Certainly it was. Tell Mary to brush your hair while I dress. Then we may even be in time for prayers.”

“Let us say a prayer that the Channel crossing is very rough.”

Lavinia looked out of the window to see the storm-torn clouds.

“I think that will be unnecessary. But we could hope that Mr. Peate won’t be a coward and refuse to go.”

She was to remember that remark later.

Before breakfast was over, Joseph stood at the door saying in a flustered way that there was a young person arrived from London with a large package directed to the Contessa Barrata.

Charlotte was on her feet, her hand pressed to her heart.

“What is in this—mysterious package, Joseph?”

“The boy says it’s a new gown, madam, made to my lady’s order. It comes from Madame Hortense, who has always made for my lady.”

“But why has it come
here?”

Joseph looked bewildered and nervous.

“The boy said that was the directions. He’s waiting in the servants’ hall if you want to question him, madam.”

Daniel threw down his napkin.

“I’ll question him. Stay there, Charlotte.”

Only Sir Timothy spoke while Daniel was gone.

“Curious,” he said conversationally. “Poor Tameson overestimated her span of life. Waste, if it’s an expensive gown. I suppose the dressmaker won’t take it back.” He chuckled appreciatively. “By Jove, the old lady kept her vanity until the end, didn’t she? I wonder where she thought she would be wearing this new gown.”

The gown was made in Lady Tameson’s favorite violet-colored velvet. It was very grand indeed. There were yards of black braiding around the voluminous skirt, and some very handsome lace on the bodice. A letter enclosed with the garment apologized to the Contessa for not sending it in time for Christmas, but the order had only arrived from Venice on the twenty-third of December, so that it had been quite impossible to fulfill it so rapidly. In any case, perhaps the Contessa herself had not yet arrived. She had said she was about to leave, but dreaded traveling in midwinter, and would break her journey two or three times on the way. She expected to arrive in England on Christmas Day or possibly a day or two later. The bill, Madame Hortense was to send to her niece, Mrs. Daniel Meryon of Winterwood, and she was sure that Mrs. Meryon would also take care of the messenger’s expenses.

Daniel put down the letter.

“What’s it all about? You must know.” He didn’t call her Charlotte, or my love, or dearest, as was his usual custom. He simply addressed her in that cool hard way as if she were a stranger.

“I—know?” she faltered. “But I don’t I haven’t the faintest idea—”

“Then you, Mr. Peate?” Daniel swung round on Jonathon, who was sitting rigid, dressed in his traveling clothes, his face calm enough but curiously mottled. “You are about to leave for Venice. Don’t tell me this journey is a wild-goose chase. You are expecting to find some person—the person who has been writing these letters and ordering this gown.
Who is she?”

“Dammit, how do I know? Someone with a peculiar sense of humor, to begin with. Certainly I was expecting to find someone. I don’t imagine those letters were written by a ghost. But whoever it is, it’s obviously too late to flush them out in Venice. They—he or she—appear to be on their way to England. Just about here, if that”—he pointed at the letter—“is to be believed.”

Charlotte sprang up, then stood immobile as if unable to think what to do next.

Sir Timothy had put on his spectacles and was examining the dress, which Daniel had thrown over a chair.

“You must admit, Charlotte, this was Tameson’s favorite color. She always smelled of violet scent, too, I noticed. It would be interesting to know what events in her life had given her this obsession about violets. Well, who’s going to stand the bill for this creation?”

Abruptly Flora began to cry. This was the signal for Charlotte to spin around and cry in a rage, “Miss Hurst, haven’t you the sense to take Flora out of here? This is not for children, this terrible joke. Daniel, that garment has got to go back to London at once. Madame whoever-she-is must be told it’s a mistake.”

She reached for the bell rope, but Daniel stopped her.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m ringing for this to be taken away and packed. The messenger mustn’t be allowed to leave without it.”

“Don’t do that,” said Daniel quietly. “Let us wait until its owner arrives.”

“No one is coming! Who could be coming?”

Daniel turned his stony face to Jonathon.

“Have you ever noticed,” he said conversationally, “that wherever there is a great deal of money the wolves gather? Or I believe the Contessa called them vultures. So let me persuade you to postpone your departure. I am sure our mysterious guest, who may be arriving at any moment”—he turned to glance out of the window—“will expect to find you here.”

But Jonathon’s face had gone an unpleasant yellow. The color of cowardice, Lavinia thought. She had a feeling of exultant revenge as she saw that it was his turn to be the one threatened. His eyes were hypnotized like a frightened animal’s. He stared at the door as if expecting it at any moment to burst open and some terrible ghost appear. He was nothing but a craven, after all. He had visibly shrunk. The violet dress spread over the chair was the strange symbol of his downfall.

What could it mean to him? Was it proof of something he had feared?

At last he spoke, but not in answer to Daniel’s question. He looked at his watch and said, “I must be off or I’ll miss the ferry. May I call upon your generosity once more, Daniel, and borrow some conveyance to take me to the railway station?”

Charlotte sprang up. If Jonathon had gone pale with private fear, she was a wraith, wild-eyed, ashen.

“Jonathon, you can’t go! You can’t leave me now.”

He gave her one glance and started for the door.

“Jonathon—”

“Don’t bother about the conveyance after all,” he said in haste. “I can’t wait for it to be brought round. My own legs will take me faster.”

The door slammed behind him.

Charlotte sank into a chair. “You coward!” she whispered. “You coward!”

Daniel, not gently, pulled her trembling hands from her face.

“The time has come for an end to these mysteries,” he said harshly. “Don’t let us waste time weeping for that rogue. Let him run away with the furies at his heels. Don’t you agree, Miss Hurst?”

Lavinia could scarcely express her thankfulness. Although the gale still raged, the morning seemed lighter, gayer.

“I do, indeed.”

“He has escaped too lightly, I think, but at least he has gone without what he came here for. Isn’t that so, Charlotte?” He crossed over to the door and locked it. “I believe you know the whole story, and you will not leave this room until you have told it. Uncle Timothy, Miss Hurst, sit down. Now we are alone. The truth, Charlotte. At once.”

Even then, in spite of the unaccustomed cold anger in her husband’s voice, it was some time before Charlotte could speak. She was literally bereft of words. Several times her trembling lips opened, only to close soundlessly. She, too, was hypnotized by the dress lying across the chair. By the dilated look of her eyes, she seemed to be seeing a ghostly Lady Tameson in it.

When at last she began to talk, it was in a disjointed monotone, like someone muttering in her sleep. Something about a funeral. At first Lavinia thought she meant Lady Tameson’s at the church in the village, but then she spoke about the cypress trees being so dark, the sun so hot.

“She wanted the nice cool earth,” she kept muttering. “And I pretended—”

“Pretended what?” Daniel was close, trying to understand the restless, whispering voice.