Tales From High Hallack, Volume 2

by Andre Norton

  “They won’t follow.” He seemed very sure of that. “Want to do a bit of sightseeing, Sara?”

  “Oh, yes!” The excitement which had gripped her ever since she had left her room was holding. They could not join the party, but that did not mean they had to just shut themselves up again.

  “Now this”—he had drawn her along as if he were very eager to have her company and was afraid that she might not give it— “is the long gallery, right over the ballroom. Family portraits—” He waved one hand to the wall. There were a few very dim lights along the inner wall to her right, the blankness of draped windows to her left.

  Sara had a sudden idea.

  “Are we there?” He had not loosed his hold on her, but she pointed with the fan in her other hand to the row of dimly seen pictures.

  For a moment he hesitated. Then he chuckled. “Just half and half, as it were,” he answered. “I am afraid, lovely lady, I cannot introduce you to your ancestress—of the spirit. For his sins Bryce is remembered with paint and varnish, but not very well. Over here.”

  He drew her to a position near the door through which they had come. If there had not been one of the low wattage lights near it, she might have seen nothing at all. As it was Sara was startled. Clearly the portrait had not been done by a very competent artist; his subject had the wooden aspect of a primitive, yet the hair—and certainly the nose—

  “Common enough looking fellow, isn’t he?” commented her escort.

  “But—but you do look like him!” she blurted out, and then tried to cover her uncomplimentary error. “It’s just the color of the hair—the eyes—”

  He was laughing. “And all the rest of it, lovely lady. But the hair’s family—you’ll find it repeated half a dozen times along here—” He waved a hand to the wall of portraits.

  It was then that the music reached them; somehow those thick walls could not drown out the sound. In the ballroom below, they were playing a waltz.

  Her companion turned swiftly and made her another of those courtly bows. “My lady, will you do me the very great honor of your hand for this dance—?”

  Sara smiled unsteadily. That queer feeling of being still somehow caught up in a play held her again. “Sir,” she made answer in a small voice, “I will be most pleased—”

  He swung her out almost as if he were afraid she might change her mind. And as she danced, Sara heard him humming. She could never remember any dance which had been like this, which had lifted her out and away from all the world which she knew.

  They were close to one of the tall windows when the music stopped. Over her partner’s shoulder, Sara thought she could see the brush of falling snow against the windowpane.

  “A very Dickensy Christmas—” she murmured as their hands fell apart.

  “A what?”

  Sara laughed. “That is what Mrs. Hotchkiss said she wanted—a very Dickensy Christmas—with snow, only there’s no stagecoach like on a card. I wonder if there is a Scrooge down below some place. If there is, she’ll soon rout him out and get him into the proper frame of mind.”

  “Why did you come?” The question was shot at her so suddenly she found no way of evading it, as she might have done had she been given more time. Instead she found herself talking of the mountain and the plane, the too small apartment in Baltimore which she shared with Ann, who had gone to visit her friend’s family in Richmond. Even as she talked, she wondered why she was telling all this to a stranger.

  He nodded when she had done. And then she thought it her turn.

  “And you—?”

  He had turned away from her a fraction and was looking through the window into the night.

  “I don’t have a roommate bound for Richmond. But our stories do not differ so much. This was something to do and—” Now he turned his head to smile at her. “Sometimes fate plays queer jokes on us, Sara. I find myself highly in favor of Mrs. Hotchkiss’s Christmases—as far as they pertain to you and me.”

  Somewhere along the gallery a clock struck. Sara shivered. That sound might have summoned up the chill which had touched her for a moment. He was holding out his hand.

  “Come, Sara, ‘tis time for ghostlings to be abed—”

  “Tomorrow?” She was slightly breathless.

  “Of course,” he said, “we have our obligations to fulfill tomorrow evening.”

  But he did not say anything about meeting her earlier, Sara thought, as she carefully unfastened the gown a little later and saw it laid out in a way to least crush its ruffling. Maybe he had some other job outside—Only as she crawled into the huge bed she wished that she could be sure of that. He did seem to like her—or had until she had spilled out all that about her life. Had she sounded like a whiner? She thumped the pillow and stared up into the drapery of the bed.

  Doubts dropped away with the coming of sleep, but they crowded back with the arrival of her breakfast, which awoke her in the morning. The maid plumped the tray down on the table by the fire.

  “Merry Christmas, miss. My, you were a real treat last night. I was coming in with the punch cups when you bowed. Oh, it was like a movie, so it was! They were all talking about it after. ‘Course we knew as how it wasn’t any ghost. But some of them—I think maybe the half believed.”

  Sara sat up in bed. “Merry Christmas,” she echoed the other’s greeting automatically. “So it went well?”

  The maid nodded enthusiastically. “Madam was very pleased, heard her say so to Miss Evans. Now, I’ve got to run, there’ll be a lot of doings today—”

  She was gone as Sara put on her robe and went to wash before sitting down to eat. The breakfast was a hearty one, probably in the proper tradition, too. She found she could not resist the biscuits and jam.

  Merry Christmas, she said to herself. But in truth she wanted very much to say that to her companion of the night before. For the first time she felt as if there was a stir of new life somewhere deep within her.

  She was restless, longing to go out into the white world beyond for a long walk. It had stopped snowing, but she stepped hurriedly back from the window as two horses came trotting along, a sleigh at their backs, their driver well-bundled up on a small seat behind the low open body of the vehicle in which there were furs and stocking caps and high clear voices she could hear, though not the words. Another of Mrs. Hotchkiss’s plans brought to triumphant fruition. The maid had returned for her tray, very much in a hurry, but pausing long enough to say that the big tree was really a sight to be seen and there was to be a special singer of folksongs in for the evening.

  Sara had her own plans for the evening, and she had plenty of time to hone and polish them, even if she did spend time with her costume books and begin two of her paperback mysteries and lay them aside for the crime of being dull.

  Never had she been so glad to see evening come. She had gobbled her dinner, and it was worth better attention; it was very plain that she was being fed as well as the paying guests. However, it could have been a cold and greasy burger as far as she was concerned, something to be gulped down to keep her going.

  Though it was good policy to stick to the wan makeup she had devised the night before, she was not prevented from making the most of what she could use. And she had the small bottle of rose oil some whim had made her tuck into her kit, though the use of perfume had not been important for a long time. Now as she twisted the lid, the odor was strong enough to make her believe that all those crimson garlands on her dress were alive and at the height of their fragrance. She took to pacing the room. When the knock came, she glanced at the clock. He was early, too!

  Sara jerked at the door in her impatience. She still had a fraction of fear—it might not be him.

  “Merry Christmas!” They said it together, their voices mingling, Sara’s hands quite without her direction going out to him. But he was bowing and holding out to her a small box. It was stained, one end of it cracked half-open, yet there was a twist of ribbon faded to dust color about it.

  Sh
e stared at it, and him, and at it again, and then very slowly took the box. It seemed very fragile, and the cover broke to bits when she opened it. Inside, on a scrap of time-discolored material, was a heart of onyx patterned with a spray of seed pearl flowers, the same tiny pearls outlining the heart. She caught at a gleam of chain as the box quite fell into scraps.

  “It’s—it’s beautiful!” Sara cupped it in her hand and then swiftly closed the space between them and touched her lips to his.

  “Wear it,” he said. “It was meant to be worn, you know.”

  She pressed it into his hand and turned around, pulling up her ribbon-bound hair so he could fasten the chain. Nor was she surprised at the touch of his lips just where he settled the chain.

  Then his hands were on her shoulders and he turned her around, smiling his wide smile. “You do a poor little gift great credit, my lady.”

  Her hand arose again to cup over the heart. “Not poor, not little—I work with old things, remember! This is a very lovely piece and very old. Is it—is it from your family?”

  Somehow she wanted so much for him to say yes.

  “In a way you might say so.” He nodded. “None but I have the right to bestow it, dear one. Shall we fulfill our bargain and then be free again?”

  Once more he offered her his arm and they made their stately progress out onto the balcony. There were more voices below tonight, Sara thought. She made her curtsy as grand and graceful as she could, marveling at how, though he looked boyishly clumsy in his ill-fitting uniform, he could be the polished gentleman of past story when he wished.

  Then they were back through the curtain, and Sara was not surprised when they came once more into the gallery. Tonight there was no music from below. Her escort went to a small table and fingered a box there—the tinkle of a tune answered and he was back.

  “You will grant me the very great honor, my lady?” He held out his hand.

  Once more they floated down the gallery.

  “You are very, very beautiful, Sara,” he said, hardly above a whisper. “Very young and very beautiful.”

  She smiled. “You are very gallant, sir. Remember, I have looked many times in my mirror. Oh—”

  The tinkle of the music had stopped. Another sound had taken its place. Rhythm of a different sort and time. Sara remembered what the maid had said about the folk singer.

  Her partner muttered something. Then suddenly his head went up and he was plainly listening.

  “I must go,” he told her.

  “But—when will I see you?” Sara asked.

  He was already at the door in three great strides, and she gathered up her skirts to hurry after him. Only when she came out into the hall there was nothing moving in the shadows between the night lights, nothing until Miss Evans came into view.

  “Miss Haines! You are out of your room!”

  “I was with—”

  “You must go back at once! There has been a change of plan. You will have to leave early in the morning as Mrs. Hotchkiss has promised to show the ambassador and Mrs. Willard through the west wing. You must be out of your room before then. You will see Mrs. Hotchkiss in her sitting room at seven. Martha will bring you your breakfast before you go.”

  Sara trailed back to her room. If they would send her off by seven, then they would send Bryce, too. Her hand cradled the heart. For some reason, though it had been resting against her flesh, it felt cold. She unfastened the clasp and held the pendant out to see the better. There was something odd—a half memory stirring deep in her mind. The back did not feel as smooth as it should. She flipped it over.

  There was a tiny oval of glass set in a rounded curve of gold and under that—could it be hair? Sara held it closer to the lamp. The glass was clouded, but surely what it covered was a bit of hair. The Victorians had a liking for such sentimental treasures. She could believe that Bryce might have given her some family piece. The hair aroused a stir of uneasiness, but when she turned the pendant over, the lacy beauty of the pearl flowers enchanted her anew.

  Yes, doubtless they would be decanted at the bus station together tomorrow. She would see him again. Later, when Sara went to sleep, the chain was once more clasped around her neck and her hand guarded her treasure.

  Did she dream? Afterward she was sure she did, but her quick awakening at the tapping on her door brought her so swiftly out of any dream that memory could not hold it.

  She showered and dressed in record time, then ate in gulps of coffee and mouthfuls of toast. Sara gave a last search around the room to make sure she had not forgotten anything. However, more than half her attention was already downstairs, meeting with Bryce, off to the bus stop. Or maybe he had a car and would offer her a ride!

  Only when she entered Mrs. Hotchkiss’s sitting room, it was to find her employer at her desk dictating to Miss Evans—and there was so sign of her fellow ghost.

  “Oh, Miss Haines.” Mrs. Hotchkiss paused her dictation nearly in mid-word. “It is good you are so prompt. I wish to tell you that you did splendidly, splendidly. Why, anyone watching you would surely have believed you did have an escort, and it did not matter that that stupid young man did not appear. It all went very well indeed; we intend to repeat it next year. Please consider yourself engaged as of now—”

  “There—there was no one—no Bryce?” Somehow Sara forced out the words.

  “As you saw, he did not see fit to appear. My dear, what a charming necklace. It looks very old—” Mrs. Hotchkiss was staring at the pendant, and Sara’s hand flew to cover it.

  “It—it was a Christmas gift,” she said. But where had it come from? No Bryce—no partner in the dance—no other—

  “Here is your check. I hate to hurry you off like this, my dear, but the Willards have decided they would rather see some of the family treasures in the west wing than attend the hunt. Remember, now, we shall want you again next year. I have no doubts that the story of your charming appearance will spread where it will do the most good and that the Laurel Hall Christmases will become quite sought after entertainment. Now, you must hurry. Jed is waiting at the side door.”

  Sara held the check in one hand without looking at it. “Yes,” she agreed, and then with some force, “I must hurry!”

  She did not remember climbing the side stairs, of turning left instead of right. But when she came to a halt in the long gallery, she knew exactly where she was.

  Breathless, she looked at that woodenly painted primitive portrait which had so little charm. But there was charm, and life, and—

  “But you were here—you were!” she said in what was hardly more than a whisper.

  Sara was never afterward sure whether that answer rang in her ears or in her head, but it was sharply confident:

  “Indeed, I was, Sara, my sweet lady. Time touched time for a space, you see. There will be next year, darling—a wonderful Dickensy Christmas—just you wait and see!”

  Noble Warrior

  Catfantastic (1989) DAW

  Emmy squinted at the stitch she had just put in the handkerchief. Ivy had curtained almost half of the window, to leave the room in greenish gloom. Too long, she would have to pick it out. On such a grayish day she wanted a candle. Only even to think of that must be a sin. Miss Wyker was very quick to sniff out sins. Emmy squinted harder. It was awfully easy to sin when one was around Miss Wyker.

  Not for the first or not even the hundredth time she puzzled as to why Great-Aunt Amelie had asked Miss Wyker to Hob’s Green. Who could be ill without feeling worse to see about that long narrow face with the closed buttonhole of a mouth, and mean little eyes on either side of a long, long nose. Elephant nose! Emmy’s hands were still while she thought of elephants, big as Jasper’s cottage. Father said that they had great seats large enough to hold several men strapped on their backs and one rode them so to go tiger hunting.

  She rubbed her hand across her aching forehead as she thought of father. If he were here, he would send old Wyker packing.

  Emmy ran a tongue t
ip over her lips. She was thirsty—but to leave her task to even get a drink of water might get her into trouble. She gave an impatient jerk and her thread broke. Before she could worry about that, sounds from the graveled drive which ran beyond the window brought her up on her knees to look out. Hardly anyone now used the front entrance drive. This was the trap from the inn, with Jeb. Beside him sat a stranger, a small man with a bushy brown beard.

  The trap came to a halt and the small man climbed down from the seat. Jeb handed down a big basket to the man who gave him a short nod before disappearing under the overhang of the doorway. Emmy dropped her sewing on the window seat to run across the room as the knocker sounded. She was cautious about edging open the door of the sitting room to give herself just a crack to see through.

  The knocker sounded three times before Jennie the housemaid hurried by, patting down her cap ribbons and looking all a-twitter. It had been so long since anyone had been so bold as to use the knocker. Nobody but Dr. Riggs ever came that way any more, and he only in the morning.

  Emmy heard a deep voice, but she could not quite make out the words. Then, as quick as if it were meant as an answer, there sounded a strange cry. Emmy jumped, the door opened a good bit wider than was wise.

  At least she could see Jennie show the visitor to the library, where Dr. Riggs was always escorted by Miss Wyker to have a ceremonial glass of claret when his visit to his patient was over. The stranger had taken the covered basket with him.

  Jennie went hurrying up the stairs to get Miss Wyker. To speed her along sounded another of those wailing cries.

  Emmy pulled the door nearer shut, but her curiosity was fully aroused. Who had come visiting and why? And whatever could be in that basket?

  She heard the determined tread of Miss Wyker and saw a stiff back covered with the ugliest of gray dresses also disappear into the parlor. Should she try to cross the hall in hope of seeing more of the visitor? She was so tired of one day being like another—all as gray as Miss Wyker’s dress—that this was all very exciting. Before she had quite made up her mind, Jennie came in a hurry, probably called by the bell. She stood just within the library door, and then backed out to head for the morning room where Emmy had been isolated for numberless dull hours of the day since Great-Aunt had taken ill.