Winterwood (8 page)

The silence was unbearably oppressive. The whole house was silent. It hardly seemed that there was an old woman still living upstairs. No wonder Lady Tameson wanted to be taken away to escape the ghosts of the past. There was not even the cheery chatter and bustle of servants, for Fernanda, the plump, slatternly maid, couldn’t speak English,

Charlotte had asked Lavinia if she spoke Italian.

“No more than a few words.”

“Then if you want Fernanda for anything you’ll have to use sign language. But you shouldn’t need her. And don’t disturb my aunt. She’s resting.”

It was obvious that Charlotte, having had to employ Lavinia against her will, was now going to make the utmost use of her. Flora had threatened to make a scene when she had heard that Lavinia was not to be at her sole disposal that day, but calmed down when told that her father would be taking her and Edward out.

With the scent of the Contessa’s past gaiety cloying her nostrils, Lavinia thought wistfully of the children, perhaps taking a gondola ride with their father, or eating ices in the Piazza San Marco while the great bells rang from the Campanile, and the pigeons wheeled with rattling wings. She worked hard, slowly reducing the pile of objects to be folded and packed. A long necklace of black and gold Venetian beads, a pair of lavender kid gloves, an elaborate program tied with silk cord from Teatro La Fenice—
Il Trovatore
—a set of the works of William Shakespeare in red leather with faded gilt lettering, a Venetian leather box containing the Count’s decorations. Thirty years of a woman’s life.

Once a door closed somewhere. Once Fernanda called something upstairs, but the answer, if there was one, was inaudible.

Lavinia, suddenly suffocated, opened a shutter, and the hot sun struck her in the face. Water sucked beneath her, leaving slimy green marks on the ancient wall. The black prows of passing gondolas dipped and rose; a gondolier was shouting vociferously, his voice dying over the water.

She imagined long-ago guests arriving here for parties, the ladies delicately lifting their skirts to climb the slippery steps, the great lamps over the doorway glowing, and the sounds of violins coming from this mirrored and polished room.

Now the mirrors were empty, or almost, since they had nothing to reflect but shrouded furniture and trunks that could have been coffins. Was all the house as gloomy as this room? Lavinia suddenly had the impulse to explore.

She went softly up the marble staircase and, tip-toeing past Lady Tameson’s door, which was closed, began opening doors along the corridor. The rooms were all bedrooms, all furnished with massive four-posters and heavy wardrobes, all empty, all musty, with a mingled scent of canal water and age. She was examining a
prie-dieu,
obviously meant for more devout guests, when she heard quick, firm steps on the stairs.

Fernanda called,
“Signor!”
and something more in Italian. The door leading into Lady Tameson’s bedroom opened and shut.

The doctor?

Lavinia lingered a moment, then was ashamed of her curiosity and went softly downstairs.

Halfway down she heard Lady Tameson give a stifled exclamation, as of disgust. Or fear? After that there was no more sound.

She was closing the last trunk when the footsteps came back down the stairs. If they belonged to the doctor, he would go straight on out the door through which he had apparently admitted himself. If they were Daniel’s, he would come in to inspect her progress.

She bent over her work as the door opened.

“Can I help you with that, Miss Hurstmonceaux?”

She stiffened over the trunk fastenings. She would have thought it impossible, in the airless heat, to feel cold, but chills went over her just as they had done in the London courtroom.

It took all her willpower to straighten herself and look around calmly.

“Thank you, Mr. Peate. But I have almost finished. And you have made a mistake with my name.”

“I do beg your pardon. Of course. You’re Miss Hurst. Flora’s new companion.” Jonathon Peate was looking at her with his bold impertinence. “In this somewhat dim light you looked exactly like another young lady I saw not long ago. Miss Hurstmonceaux. Lavinia Hurstmonceaux,” he added with deliberation.

“It’s very easy to make a mistake. I hope you found your aunt well.”

“As well as can be expected. And how are you enjoying your new position, Miss Hurst?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Splendid. I’m glad to hear it. I will look forward to renewing our acquaintance at Winterwood.”

“At Winterwood!”

“Don’t look so surprised, Miss Hurst. Or is it alarm I see in your face? It’s too dark in here to see much at all. Why don’t you have a shutter open?” He crossed to one of the windows and threw open a shutter. The light streaming on his face seemed to heighten his ruddy color. “There, now I can see you. You really are quite extraordinarily like that other lady.”

“What an odd coincidence,” Lavinia said coldly.

“It certainly is. And don’t admire my good memory. One simply doesn’t forget quickly your kind of looks. And hers, of course. But I’m scarcely flattering you by confusing you with her. She wasn’t exactly in enviable circumstances.” He laughed softly as he added, “Cousin Charlotte has invited me to spend some time at Winterwood. I believe I shall enjoy that.” He wrinkled his nose. “I say, these Venetian smells aren’t exactly lavender water. I’ll have to close this again. Stuffiness is the better of two evils. You will have to try to survive, Miss Hurst. I’m sure my young relative Flora would be most upset if you didn’t.”

Was that a threat? Why would he threaten her?

When he had gone, shutting the door with a bang and calling in his loud jovial voice for the gondolier, Lavinia tried to reassure herself. She was feeling a little sick. She couldn’t be certain that Jonathon Peate knew who she was. He might have been only guessing. He must have seen her on one of the days of that interminable two weeks of the trial. She knew there had been a great number of sightseers, particularly men. Surely it wasn’t her bad fortune to meet one of them so quickly. But she did remember the strange searching look he had given her in the hotel yesterday. Some memory had nagged at him then. Later he must have remembered what it was.

So now he was either certain, of his knowledge, or bluffing.

But why? Did he think that, scared of his betraying her secret, she would allow him to put her to some future use?

Rather than that, she would let him tell the whole truth.

But it would hurt Flora, who had conceived this sudden ardent affection for her, dreadfully. She didn’t yet return Flora’s affection, but she was extremely reluctant to have that tragic little figure in her wheelchair hurt.

And Daniel? How would he accept such news? Lavinia clenched her hands, feeling them gritty with dust, and beginning to shudder with revulsion and despair. Daniel mustn’t know. She couldn’t bear him to know. Her chin lifted and hardened. Perhaps Mr. Jonathon Peate would get a surprise himself when he found that she was not so easy to manipulate after all. He forgot that she had come through an experience not designed to make her easily frightened or to rely on tears. When lies were of value, she would tell them without compunction. Let him find out how little she could be terrorized.

But what exactly was he up to?

It seemed that Jonathon had scarcely gone before the doorbell clanged.

That would be Charlotte coming back to see if her work was finished, and to pay her second visit of the day to Aunt Tameson.

Fernanda flapped across the
sala
in her loose espadrilles.

The door opened. Daniel’s voice said, “I have come for Miss Hurst, Fernanda,” and Lavinia was hurriedly wiping the moisture off her cheeks.

“Have you finished, Miss Hurst?” Daniel was in the doorway. “My wife has a bad headache, so I have come for you. I’ll just go upstairs and pay my respects to the Contessa. We plan to leave Venice next Monday. I have been making all the bookings.”

The old house was suddenly alive again. Lavinia sat on a trunk until Daniel came downstairs. She knew in that brief passage of time that nothing could ever make her confess her past. She desired so ardently that he think well of her.

Then he was in the doorway again, not smiling, but looking at her with his too observant eyes.

“You have streaks down your cheeks, Miss Hurst. Is it the heat?”

Lavinia opened her eyes wide, willing the tears to be dry.

“Yes, it’s dreadfully hot. I tried opening the shutters, but that made it worse. But I’ve got everything packed to the last handkerchief, in spite of an interruption by Mr. Peate.”

“What did he want?” Daniel’s voice had ceased to be friendly.

“He made a call on his aunt.”

“Deathbeds become quite a family reunion, had you ever noticed, Miss Hurst?”

“I am not very familiar with deathbeds, Mr. Meryon.”

“No. Well—the old lady seems fond of Mr. Peate, or so my wife assures me, so I expect he does no harm. I wonder if I could make Fernanda understand that we would like some lemon tea. You look fatigued.”

Lavinia was about to protest, then subsided gratefully.

“That would be very pleasant, Mr. Meryon. I confess I do feel a little tired.”

Again, while he was gone, she forgot to tidy herself, but sat waiting passively for him to return. He was gone for a long time and when he returned he was carrying the tea tray himself.

“This isn’t a conventional establishment. My wife’s aunt seems to be quite eccentric. Apparently she refuses to pay servants. She imagines they rob her. Well, by tomorrow there won’t be much to rob her of.” He threw the dust sheet off a tapestry-backed chair and sat down. “It’s sad, don’t you agree, seeing a great house break up.”

He knew that the marks on her cheeks had been made by tears. He was giving her the opportunity to attribute them to the air of pervading and haunted melancholy in this old house.

“Yes, I wonder who will live here next. Shall I pour the tea, Mr. Meryon?”

“Please do. A rich American, perhaps. They are beginning to discover Europe and the fascination of living in houses to which centuries have given their individual atmosphere. Winterwood is like that. Each generation has added something to it. My grandfather built the ballroom, my great-grandfather had the gardens landscaped. My father contented himself with bringing back statuary from Greece and Egypt. We have sphinxes on the terrace. My grandfather built the Temple of Virtue in the shrubbery. He was a wonderful old pagan.”

“And what is your contribution, Mr. Meryon?”

“So far nothing. But I have plans. My wife calls them grandiose. A new wing was always meant to be added, according to the original plans. Up to this time no one has had enough money.”

“And you intend to be the one to do it?”

“I hope so. Then Winterwood will be one of the most beautiful houses in England. My son Simon will inherit, and after him his son. I’ll become the ancestor who built the new wing. Which, in its way, is a form of immortality. Do you think that attitude is wrong, Miss Hurst?”

Lavinia roused herself from watching his face and wondering if it ever grew soft like that for a woman.

“No, I don’t think it wrong, at all.”

“My wife thinks me a little too dedicated to a house. She thinks it a religion. I wonder if that’s such a bad thing.”

Charlotte must be jealous of his house. She wondered if she would be, too.

“I only look forward to seeing it.”

“And I look forward to showing it to you.”

Their eyes met across the dim room.

“You must wash your face, Miss Hurst.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s the dust. And the heat.”

His eyes lingered.

Then he said, “Are we working you too hard? Are you sorry you didn’t travel with that quiet elderly couple, after all?”

She would have been safe with the Monks. Now she wasn’t safe at all. There was Jonathon Peate with his veiled threats, and this man who noticed her or ignored her as he pleased.

“Then I would have missed Winterwood, which you make me think would be a pity.”

“You must guard against us, Miss Hurst,” he said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re inclined to use people.” He must have thought his remark obscure, for he explained, “Look at you now, dusty and dirty. You’ve been working like a slave.”

Lavinia knew that this wasn’t what he had meant at all.

“Dust will wash off. I’m not afraid of work.”

“No, I see that,” he said slowly, making no more explanation. “Well, then, are you going to wash off the dust before we leave?”

It almost seemed as if he had been trying to warn her about something. But his warning had not been the blatant threat of Jonathon Peate; it had a kind of tenderness and regret that she knew she would keep on remembering. Was he telling her not to fall in love with Winterwood, because her love would inevitably have to include its master?

He kissed her hand meaninglessly; he gave her orders in a brusque way; he ignored her, or he gave her that disturbing intense regard; he used her to satisfy his spoiled daughter’s whims; he confided in her his dreams about Winterwood; he noticed her tears; he was an enigma, and she was certain that she was going to fall in love with him. Uselessly, hopelessly, and, she was dismally sure, permanently.

Just as they were leaving, Lavinia heard a movement at the top of the stairs. She turned to see a short, square figure wrapped in a voluminous bedgown.

It was the Contessa.

“You!” she said, pointing at Lavinia. “Have you packed everything? My velvet ball gown?”

“Yes, Contessa.”

“My cashmere shawls?”

“Yes, I especially noticed them.”

“Good. They cost a mint of money. Venetian shopkeepers are robbers. What about my sables?”

Lavinia had noticed some fur pieces, ancient and dilapidated.

“Yes, Contessa. They’re in your trunks.”

“You’re saying yes to everything, girl. Are you doing this to hide your laziness? I must be properly dressed at Winterwood.”

“You can come in rags, my dear lady,” said Daniel. He spoke with the indulgence he used toward Flora, and the old lady loved it. She gave a hoarse chuckle and added that although he was still a stranger he seemed trustworthy. She must have had servants who had robbed her, Lavinia thought, to make her so full of suspicion and live such an eccentric shut-away life.