Dearest Enemy

by Alexandra Sellers

  “How do you do?” she returned, taking the woman’s elegantly proffered hand. It was all delicate skin and bone, but she got a good firm grip out of it, Elain noted. The denim of her jeans was growing hot on her calves; there was a glowing fire in the fireplace. She had stood too close to the fire because she was trying to keep away from Math Powys, yet fire was something that she usually avoided.

  Two women in their sixties were sitting side by side on the sofa. “Rosemary and Davina Esterhazy,” said Powys, not making absolutely clear which was which. Elain bent to take the hand of the one on the right.

  “I’m sorry—Rosemary, is it?” she said.

  “That’s right!” said the woman, slim but squarish, her shoulders held very straight. She took Elain’s hand in a firm, no-nonsense grasp. “Now, isn’t that interesting, Davina! She got it right, first time! I wonder if she has the Gift? Do you have the Gift, dear?” Sharp, assessing eyes fixed on her face with a detachment that was curiously at odds with her words. Elain, getting into this now, immediately cast her in the part of the humourless school headmistress, one of those actors whose name she could never remember.

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Davina, before Elain could say a word. She was smaller and less military than her sister, her fine hair slipping out of its pins to halo around her head, and her figure fuller, softer and more rounded. “I felt something the moment she entered the room,” she declared, her delivery almost theatrical.

  Elain almost laughed aloud. She sounded exactly like Margaret Rutherford playing the psychic, Madame Arcati, in one of Elain’s all-time favourite films! Elain gazed at her. Was she going to complain that Elain was “interrupting her vibrrrations”?

  “You can always tell when another person has the Gift,” Davina explained to them all. “It’s like Mind speaking to Mind, isn’t it, dear?” She smiled compellingly upon Elain, daring her to refuse to be endowed with the Gift.

  But Elain managed to hold her own, made an apologetic face and shrugged. “I don’t think I’m very psychic.” She smiled. Not for worlds would she have told them about Owen Glendower and his nobles.

  “Oh, I think you are.” Madame Arcati raised a hand to her temple. “I’m quite sure of it, my dear. If you haven’t realized it yet, that merely means that you have not been made aware of your own potential. We must see what we can do while you are here. I have had a little experience in training the, uh...non-initiates.”

  Math Powys grinned appreciatively. “Before you get into telepathic communication, meet someone else in English.” Everybody laughed, and he turned to another chair, where a young man with puffy eyes, pale skin and a wry smile was nursing a large whiskey. “Jeremy Wilkes. Our resident poet,” said Math. A large black Lab lying beside the poet’s chair raised its eyes and gazed at Math. “The dog is Bill.”

  “Mostly unpublished,” the poet said at the same time, taking Elain’s extended hand. He smiled at her with a certain amount of tired charm, the twinkle in his eyes sharing appreciation of the scene just past with her. “Hello. How on earth have you managed to end up in a burned-out hotel like this?”

  She gave that a smile and a shrug. “Have you spent the night with the giant, too?”

  He raised his eyebrows in real shock. “I beg your pardon?” With a little zing of surprise, she realized that Jeremy was a good deal older than she had first imagined. His face looked young, but the skin was sagging and lined; he must be forty at least. When he was an old man, she reflected, he would look like a pickled child.

  “You know—the mountain.”

  “Elain has just heard the legend of Cadair Idris,” said Math Powys. Elain’s imagination stopped short of being able to cast him.

  Jeremy Wilkes jerked his head as he got it. “Oh—oh! Oh, yes, I have, actually. I must tell you sometime what happened to me up there. But, more’s the pity, I think I came down mad.”

  That made them all laugh, and then Elain sat in a chair beside Jeremy while Powys offered her a drink and moved off to pour it. The dog got up and followed him.

  “Math’s been telling us you’re an artist, Miss Owen,” Vinnie began, her voice quiet but beautifully pitched. “That must be so interesting! I do envy people with talent. Tell us, what do you paint?”

  Elain sighed with relief. If someone had asked instead, “What brought you to Wales?”, she would have been starting with a lie again, and she always hated that.

  “The sort of thing I mostly paint is called magical realism now,” she said, taking the glass of wine that Math offered. He went back to leaning against the dresser, and the dog settled down at his feet.

  Rosemary frowned. “I thought that was a literary term. Taliesin writes magical realism. Wounds Which Bleed Profusely. And Gabriel García Marquez.”

  “A Thousand Years of Solitude,” interjected Jeremy, nodding. He sighed. “Fabulous book.”

  Elain nodded. “Yes, I think the literary term was borrowed by artists. Or art critics.”

  “Surely it’s a hundred,” said Rosemary. Everybody stared at her. “A Hundred Years of Solitude,” she expanded impatiently. “Surely not a thousand.”

  “Yes, that’s not what I meant,” said Jeremy. “I wasn’t quoting the actual title. When I say a thousand years, I mean that’s the feeling the book gives. You know, all that history, all that solitude.” He waved a hand.

  It wasn’t a book Elain had ever read, and what he said was meaningless to her, but Rosemary clearly had. “I don’t see—” She broke off, frowning at Jeremy as if she would like to sort him out but had tried before and knew it wasn’t worth it.

  It was left to Math to pick up the pieces in the silence that the poet’s curious gibberish had produced. “What is magical realism in art?”

  She never felt very comfortable with words, and anyway, his interest made her nervous. “Oh, well, if I were to paint the fireplace, for example,” she began, babbling slightly, “with all of you sitting here, and then an overlay of Owen Glendower and his men in armour...you know, as if to say—” She broke off, smiling and shrugging. “Well, I’d rather paint it than talk about it.”

  “What a very lovely idea. I do hope you’ll paint that. I should love to be in a picture with Owen Glendower. Such a fine warrior and general,” said Vinnie. “I hope you’ll make him look very Welsh, and very masculine.”

  “Not this fireplace,” said Rosemary. “Not Owen Glendower. Wrong period.”

  And under that clinical tone, the vision that had been taking shape in Elain’s head abruptly shattered and fell back into that strange sea from which it had arisen. She closed her eyes to hide her fury with this wanton destruction. It was her own fault. She knew better than to babble out ideas while they were still forming. It was because she was nervous that she had neglected to obey her own hard-learned rules.

  “This wouldn’t be earlier than 1550, would it, Math?” Rosemary went relentlessly on, sounding even more like a very old-fashioned schoolteacher. “Glendower was probably dead by 1416. If he was around here during his years of conquest, it was up at the old fortress, I should imagine.”

  “This house was begun in 1547, according to the records,” Math agreed softly. “There are signs that there was a building on the site contemporary with the fortress, though, and the age of the fireplace has never been established. It may belong to the original building. In any case, as the present house was built with stones taken from the fortress, Owen Glendower almost certainly has stood near the stones of the fireplace, even if they were in some other shape at the time. The Lord of Cas Carreg was one of his earliest supporters in the North-West.” He smiled at Elain as he spoke, but the look in his eyes was not quite a smile. With a little shock, she realized he was trying to give her back her vision. How had he understood? “By tradition he certainly slept here.”

  The fire belched a puff of grey smoke straight at Rosemary, punctuating his speech, as though the stones themselves had cried, “So there!” Rosemary coughed and groped in her sleeve for a ha
nky, blinking her suddenly burning eyes.

  “How stupid!” she cried.

  Elain gasped and bit her lip against a smile of astonishment, but the rest of the company was not so restrained. They burst out laughing as one, Bill sat up and barked, and Vinnie leaned towards the fireplace and called, “Hello, my dear!”

  “Jess putting you in your place, Rosemary,” said Jeremy with some relish, as she coughed again and waved the smoke from her face. “Again.”

  “Oh dear. She really does seem to have taken against us, doesn’t she?” Davina murmured.

  Elain found herself staring at the fireplace. “Who’s—?” she began.

  The door opened and Jan stepped in, looking harassed. “Myfanwy says she’s kept dinner back twenty minutes already and if she keeps it any longer it’ll spoil, and if you don’t come now she’s leaving,” she told the room firmly.

  “Right. We’re coming now,” said Math, setting down his glass and straightening up. The rest of the company shot to their feet like privates at the entrance of the general’s adjutant.

  As they moved from the room, the black Lab firmly leading the way, Vinnie came up beside Elain and took her arm. “It’s all right, dear. It’s just our resident ghost in action. But you’ll be fine. I can tell she likes you already.”

  She was in a movie, all right. And she was beginning to wish she’d read the script in advance.

  Chapter 3

  The first course was carrot soup, with a dollop of cream and a sprig of fresh parsley decorating the centre of each bowl, and it was delicious. The plumbing might be Victorian, and the hangings date from the war, Elain thought, but it looked as though the food was going to be first class.

  The dining room was a large space that ran through the main floor from front to back, with windows at either end overlooking the valley and the ruins. All the walls here had been masked with plaster, and the wallpaper and hangings were faded, as in the lounge.

  It was sprinkled with tables for two and four, but they sat at a large table at one end of the room, in a niche created by the placing of a handsome but rather chipped wooden screen. They were beside yet another fireplace, and with the wind-driven rain beating against the windows, the fire was surprisingly welcome for a summer evening.

  Their table was round, and to Elain’s relief, Vinnie was between her and Math. “We’re not always so cosy,” Vinnie explained. “At first, after the fire, we suspended non-resident dining, but Myfanwy is the best chef for miles, and what with the demand from all around and Myfanwy getting bored and sulky cooking for a mere handful every day, Math was virtually forced to reinstate the public dining room. But on Mondays we have always had Residents Only Dining. In the old days it was to give the head cook a break, you see. The underlings could cope with a smaller group.”

  “And here we are,” said Jeremy, rather theatrically, from her other side. Elain was still trying to place him in her cast of actors.

  “My dear, I wonder if you could paint a portrait of the ghost,” said Davina abruptly, leaning across the table towards her with dizzy Madame Arcati enthusiasm. “Do you think you might be inspired to do that, ah, Elain?”

  Elain blinked. “I...don’t know. Who is it? When did she live?”

  “Her date is not very certain, although there have always been stories in the village,” said Vinnie.

  “They say it’s a girl,” added Jeremy. “Sometimes I’m convinced it’s a man. It’s got Althorpe’s sense of humour to a T.”

  “Who’s Althorpe?” She looked down at the dog, lying by the fire. No, the dog had been introduced as Bill.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Jeremy. “Althorpe! Viscount Althorpe!’ Elain still looked blank. “The Princess of Wales’s brother.”

  “Well, of course, Earl Spencer now,” Vinnie interposed softly.

  “Oh, of course,” said Jeremy, clapping his hand to his forehead. “The last time I spoke to my dear cousin, it was still Althorpe. He’s a cousin on the mater’s side,” he said in parenthesis to Elain, looking at her to be sure she was properly impressed. “Not nearly so well-connected on Father’s side, I’m afraid,” he added, apparently in ritual English self-deprecation, but it wasn’t lost on Elain that, once having established cousinship with Earl Spencer, he didn’t have to worry too much about the impact of his father’s shortcomings. “And now, in any case, much in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes.”

  Sydney Greenstreet, she said to herself. He’s been on a diet.

  * * *

  The second course was grilled salmon with boiled buttered new potatoes and snow peas, all cooked to perfection.

  “Myfanwy normally takes Mondays off,” Vinnie explained. “But she’s just been away for a week, so she’s cooking tonight. Her mother is very ill, and Math made her take a week off to go and visit. Mondays we generally manage to cobble something together among ourselves.”

  “We positively begged Myfanwy to cook tonight. Not that she was unwilling,” Davina said.

  “Yes, you were lucky not to arrive last week. It might have been baked beans on toast,” said Jeremy. He shuddered at the memory.

  “How ridiculous. It was never that bad,” said Rosemary repressively. “Math’s steaks were certainly delicious.” She paused, but no one spoke. Elain wondered what Rosemary had cooked when it was her turn. Rosemary turned to her. “Do you cook?”

  “Umm,” said Elain hesitatingly, “cheese sandwiches? Mushroom soup?” She could cook, she enjoyed eating food too much to neglect the means of preparing it, but somehow under Math’s watchful gaze, she superstitiously wanted to keep biographical information to herself. As though if she told him too much, he might manage to steal her soul.

  Everybody groaned in mock resignation. “Not another sandwich-maker!”

  “As you see, we’ve developed a bunker mentality since the fire,” said Math with a grin. “It’s us against the world. Usually we all muck in on Monday nights, but last week we took turns.”

  “Math has had to let the sous-chef go, you see,” Vinnie said quietly to Elain. “With not taking guests for the summer.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Davina clearly and precisely, “the enemy is in the bunker with us.”

  Elain turned so suddenly to look at Davina that her hair snapped around her head and hit her mouth. Everyone else seemed largely unmoved, although Vinnie shifted uncomfortably.

  “Oh, not that again!” said Jeremy.

  Elain’s heart was beating wildly, and she had to close her eyes in order to contain the impulse to look at Math and see if he had noticed her guilty reaction. For one panicked moment, she’d imagined that Davina was talking about her.

  “What is it? What do you mean?” she asked, hoping no one had noticed that betraying pause.

  “Everybody thinks the ghost is an innocent prankster,” Davina told her gravely. “But I think this ghost has Tuhned.”

  “Tuhned?” Elain repeated.

  “Yes. You know,” she urged as Elain still looked blank. “Tuhned ugly. Sinistuh. They do, you know.”

  “Oh, turned!” Light dawned, and Davina nodded.

  “That’s what I said. Tuhned.”

  “Do they really? I’ve never heard that before. What makes a ghost turn?”

  Madame Arcati waved a negligent hand. “Oh, there may be many reasons. One doesn’t always know. I have sensed with this one—” she put a hand to her forehead “—perhaps a restlessness, a frustration, if you will, with being locked on this plane for so long.”

  Well, there were stranger things in the world, though she did make Elain want to giggle. Elain looked directly at Math for the first time since they had sat down. “Have you thought of bringing in an exorcist? Would your vicar—”

  Davina’s horrified sucked-in breath cut her off. “Oh, one mustn’t do that! Not under any circumstances!”

  “Why not?” asked Jan curiously. She had come in to clear the second-course dishes. “That’s what my mother says, too.”

  “You cannot exorcise
a ghost if it is Tuhning,” Davina said flatly. “It is extremely dangerous.”

  Elain was prepared to go so far, but this was a bit beyond her tolerance level. “Come on, when’s the last time a ghost was really dangerous? Isn’t that just for the movies?”

  “It is most certainly not ‘just for the movies,’” Davina told her repressively.

  “I see.” She turned to Math. “Have you tried to have it done? An exorcism?” He shook his head. “Why not?”

  “Because I like her. Most people do. She’s a tradition—she’s been in the house for generations. I’ve been here three years. It would be presumptuous of me to tell her to go.”

  “You think the ghost is a woman?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Why?” she asked curiously.

  “Because I have got to know her, and she is very female,” he said with an appreciative smile. Elain didn’t know why his tone should send goose bumps up her back, but it did. She visibly shivered, but not for the reason they all thought.

  “There’s really nothing to be afraid of,” said Vinnie. “I’ve lived with her for many years, and she has never once been malicious. Sometimes childish, but she has such a marvellous sense of humour that one always forgives her.” She turned to Math. “It certainly would be a great pity to send her away.”

  “I feel like pinching myself,” said Elain in charmed amazement. “Is this an act you put on for newcomers? You aren’t seriously telling me you all believe that there is a real, live ghost in this house, turning or otherwise?”

  Rosemary sighed. “Ah, the limited colonial mind. Of course, in Canada, I suppose you haven’t any buildings old enough to have ghosts. Here in Britain, my dear, we have been building permanent structures rather longer than you have. Many of the great houses of England have ghosts and, I should imagine, numbers of lesser houses. It is stupid to ridicule something simply because you have no experience of it.”

  Elain sat silent under the unpleasant little hail of words. She had not really been ridiculing their ghost, but now she was, as usual in the face of mockery, absolutely tongue-tied. She blushed and wished she could answer the attack, but she only felt that unbearable shyness she knew so well, and the certainty of being on her own.