When something—a jar, perhaps a bottle—spun past her head to strike Preston full in his face, it knocked him off balance. The blade flashed past Margot’s eyes, missing her by centimeters. Preston roared a protest, wordless, harsh, as he scrambled to his feet again. He lifted the razor, but a hand—not her own, and not even human—snatched it from him as if it were no sharper, no more dangerous, than a silver butter knife from the dining table in Benedict Hall.
Preston howled with impotent fury. Frank—Frank!—threw the straight razor into a corner, where it clattered to the floor, well out of reach. Frank’s arm, his wonderful, nearly invincible Carnes arm, seized Preston in an irresistible grip of metal and leather. Time, for Margot, resumed its normal flow with a snap that took her breath away.
Blake joined Frank, and together they held Preston’s arms, even as he shrieked curses and fought to free himself. Allison appeared at Margot’s side, guiding her back with her small hands, exclaiming over the blood running over her hand to drip on the floor. She made Margot pull off her coat. She found a roll of gauze on a shelf, rolled up Margot’s sleeve, and began binding the cut with sure, swift movements.
The men who worked on Post Street—the Italian grocer, Arnie from the diner—crowded into the storeroom, drawn by Allison’s screams and Preston’s shouts, which went on unabated, and which made Margot wonder if his mind had broken at last. Soon there were policemen, and even an ambulance, which Margot knew she didn’t need, but which bore her away just the same, with Frank at her side.
She was the only person, in all the crowd that gathered to deal with the crisis, who hadn’t spoken a word. She would always know, after this day, what shock felt like to her patients. She knew the symptoms, of course—dry mouth, damp skin, tight chest. What she had never guessed was the emotional effect, the sense of disconnection, the impression of having stepped through a curtain into some other, alien world and knowing there might not be a way back. She had thought she knew all about dying, but this—this was something she had never imagined.
Nothing seemed real to her, not Frank’s warm hand on her shoulder, nor the gong of the ambulance, nor even the pain beginning to burn in her arm. The only thing that seemed real to her, at this moment, was the propinquity of death. She had been ready for it, albeit reluctantly. She had seen it coming. She had felt the curtain of shadow ready to fall, the profound mystery about to be revealed. It had been thwarted, for now. But it hovered nearby, for all of them, for everyone she knew and cared about.
She had not died today. No one in that room had died. But it could have happened. It could so easily have happened. How did people live with that knowledge?
Allison shivered with a violence she wouldn’t have believed possible. The warmth of the Essex’s heater hadn’t helped, and the blankets Ruby wrapped around her, as she huddled by the fire in the small parlor, didn’t help. Nothing eased her shaking until Uncle Dickson brought her a small glass of golden liquid and said, gruffly, “Drink up, Allison. Best medicine there is.”
She did, and he was right. The heat of the brandy ran like fire through her throat. She could trace its warmth down her chest and into her stomach. At last, hours after the awful scene in Margot’s clinic, she began to relax.
“Is she all right?” she had begged, over and over, of anyone who seemed to know what had happened to Cousin Margot. “Is it bad?”
It was, again, Uncle Dickson who soothed her fears, once she was calm enough to listen. He said, “My own physician is seeing to her. Don’t worry. Dr. Creedy says it’s a superficial laceration.”
“It’s my fault, Uncle Dickson.” Allison’s throat was so tight she could barely speak. “If I hadn’t run out like that—”
He patted her hand. “No, my dear,” he said. He looked so sad she felt sympathetic tears sting her eyes. “No, all of this is my fault, going back a very long way.”
Blake came in, carrying a tray with cups and a teapot. Uncle Dickson said, “Blake, I want you to go to bed. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Blake nodded, but the order didn’t stop him from setting the cups on the piecrust table and pouring out the tea. Ramona was there, in her pink flannel dressing gown, and Dick in a thick sweater and plus fours. Cousin Ramona had been crying. Cousin Dick had tried to comfort her, but he was white around the lips, and Allison saw that his hands, rubbing his wife’s shaking shoulders, trembled so that when he tried to pick up a teacup, it rattled violently against the saucer. She could only guess at their feelings. They had mourned Cousin Preston all this past year. Learning he was alive must be staggering. Incomprehensible.
Her father was fully dressed in his usual suit and vest. He paced beside the tall windows, sometimes glaring at Allison, other times peering in confusion out of the window. He had taken to scrubbing his head with nervous hands until his hair stood up like a rooster’s comb.
Blake said, “Mr. Dickson, Hattie would like to know what to do about luncheon.”
“Tell her we’ll have cold sandwiches, or soup if she has it. Whatever’s convenient.”
“She sent Leona up to see to Mrs. Edith.”
“Good. That’s good. Thank you, Blake.”
Uncle Dickson put two more small logs on the fire and stoked it a bit, then sat down in his chair near the divan where Allison was curled in her nest of blankets. He watched to see that Blake had left the room before he said over his shoulder, “Henry, sit down. Have some tea. Or would you prefer brandy? There’s nothing we can do now but wait for Margot and the major to telephone.”
“What about Adelaide?” Papa said fretfully. “Margot was going to arrange something for Adelaide today.”
“It’s a good hospital,” Uncle Dickson said. “They’ll take care of her.” He put his head back, staring at the flames in the fireplace beneath heavy eyelids.
“I just don’t understand,” Papa said, pacing again. “First Adelaide in the hospital, and Allison running around in the dark—how did all that add up to Margot and Preston—” He broke off and ran his hand through his hair again.
Allison, encouraged by the warmth of the brandy, said, “I wasn’t running around, Papa.” She was about to explain that Preston had seized her, forced her into the water tower, but the grief on Uncle Dickson’s face stopped her. She pressed her lips together and was silent.
Uncle Dickson’s eyes flicked over to her, then away. “Allison couldn’t have known.”
“She knew better than to strike her mother!” Papa exclaimed.
Allison hung her head. There was no answer to that. She shouldn’t have struck her mother, spoon or no spoon. In truth, it had been more of a collision than a blow, but Papa wouldn’t care for that excuse, she was sure.
“I’m sure Dr. Kinney will have a word to say about all this,” he pronounced. Allison clenched her teeth and stared at the folds of her blanket.
Uncle Dickson said, “Henry, we don’t know for sure what happened yet.”
“My wife’s in the hospital!” Papa exclaimed. “Her own daughter put her there!”
“No. My daughter, the physician, put her there, and not for her broken arm. She thinks she’s ill.” Uncle Dickson closed his eyes and spoke with infinite weariness. “But, Henry, my son’s in jail, and I have to find some way to tell his mother that he’s been alive all this past year, while she mourned him and took flowers to an empty grave. Keep some perspective.”
Allison said softly, “I’m so sorry, Uncle Dickson. About everything.”
He murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”
Her father shot her a furious glance, but she pretended not to see it.
She drank the cup of tea Blake had poured, then, feeling stronger, she unwrapped the blankets and stood up. Ramona and Dick were huddled in a corner, Dick with an arm around Ramona, Ramona with her head on his shoulder. Papa came to stand by the fire, his arms folded over his paunch. He stared down at her, unblinking.
“I’m going to take the tray into the kitchen,” Allison said quietly.
&nbs
p; Papa said, “Call one of the maids.”
“All the servants were up half the night, Papa. Cousin Ramona said so.”
“So were you.”
“And you’re angry at me for that.”
“It doesn’t mean I want you doing servants’ work.”
“I don’t like being useless,” she answered pointedly, and was rewarded by seeing his cheeks redden. She picked up the tray with the teapot and unused cups without looking at him again. She carried the tray out of the small parlor and across the hall, backing through the swinging door into the kitchen. She found Hattie stirring something in the big stockpot. Ruby was seated at the enamel-topped table with a cup of tea and a plate of toast and jam.
“Oh, Miss Allison! Let me take that from you.” Hattie hurried across the kitchen to reach for the tray. “You shouldn’t oughtta do that sort of thing.”
Allison cast Ruby a reproachful glance, but Ruby only stared back at her as she put the last piece of toast in her mouth. She made no move to get up, but watched as Allison relinquished the tray into Hattie’s hands.
Hattie said, “You poor chile. You must be exhausted!”
“You must be, too, Hattie,” Allison said. “I think everyone is.” And then, with a touch of bitterness, “Except perhaps Papa.”
“Well, now,” Hattie said, not meeting her eyes. “I wouldn’t know about that. Did you have some tea? Maybe you should go up to your bed and get some rest.”
“I don’t think I could sleep, Hattie. I keep seeing Cousin Margot, and Cousin—” She broke off, remembering. Hattie had grieved for Cousin Preston, too, had wept over his empty place in the dining room. She didn’t know if Hattie had heard yet, if Blake would have explained—
When she looked up into Hattie’s face, she saw that the cook already knew. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, and her lips trembled as if she had only just managed to stop crying.
Hattie swiped at her eyes with the hem of her apron, and said, “I know, I know, Miss Allison. This is a terrible time. I thought, when Mr. Preston got burned up in the fire, that was the worst thing that could ever happen to Benedict Hall, but this—” Her voice broke on a fresh sob, and she turned back to the stove.
“Oh, Hattie,” Allison said. She stood awkwardly by the enamel-topped table, staring at Hattie’s rounded shoulders, her bent head. Hattie was right. It was terrible. It wasn’t just that Cousin Margot had gotten slashed with a straight razor. It was her brother who did it, and who had hidden himself all this past year while people who loved him grieved his death. It was stranger than any novel or film, and she had no idea what was going to happen next.
While she struggled to think of something she could say, some comfort she could offer, she became aware of Ruby’s gaze, bright with avid curiosity. “Ruby,” she said sharply. “Go see if Aunt Edith needs anything.”
“Leona’s up there, Miss Allison,” Ruby said.
Allison very nearly stamped her foot. “Leona is not a lady’s maid. Aunt Edith may need her hair dressed or something. This is going to be a hard day for her.”
“Why?”
“Ruby. Do as you’re told.” Allison lifted her chin and did her best to mimic the decisive tone Cousin Margot used when people were behaving badly. She turned her back as if she had no doubts about Ruby’s obedience. She heard the chair scrape, the teacup clatter in its saucer, and then the swish of the swinging door. She would remonstrate with Ruby later, she promised herself, about leaving her things on the table for Hattie to clean up.
When she was sure Ruby was gone, she walked across to the stove so she could look up into Hattie’s face. Big, shining tears rolled down Hattie’s cheeks, even as she stirred and stirred the pot. Allison, no longer caring whether it was appropriate or not, put out her hand and took the long wooden spoon from Hattie’s hand. She laid it on the spoon rest, put the lid back on the pot, and then, putting her arm around Hattie’s plump waist, she guided her to the table and pressed her into a chair.
The cook was shaking her head, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “No, no, Miss Allison, you shouldn’t—old Hattie will be all right, if I just take a minute—”
“Sit right there,” Allison said. She went to the counter, where the teapot rested on its tray, and poured a cup. She carried it back to the table and set it in front of Hattie, then pulled a chair up beside her. “Drink some tea, Hattie. It will make you feel better.”
Hattie sniffled, and reached for the cup. When she saw it was one of the good china ones, she hesitated, but Allison touched her shoulder, and said, “It’s not a day to worry about rules.” Hattie sniffled again, and drank, while Allison sat back and waited for her to calm herself.
When Hattie had drained the cup, she set it down, pulled a large handkerchief from her apron pocket, and blew her nose. “So kind to old Hattie, Miss Allison. I’m sorry I’m so weepy, but it’s a real sad day.”
“I know it is.”
“We all thought,” Hattie said in a trembling voice, “that Mr. Preston was gone. Mrs. Edith didn’t never get over it, you know, and now—I don’t know but what this is a whole lot worse.”
“Uncle Dickson is trying to think of how to tell her.”
“It was just—it was so cruel of Mr. Preston. He knew—he knows—” Her words died away, and she sat twisting the handkerchief in her hands. She drew a painful, uneven breath, and brought her eyes up to Allison’s face. In a voice tight with apprehension, she said, “Blake says Mr. Preston got burned. Does he look—is he very—” She gave a shake of her head and looked away, to the view of the garden stretching behind the house.
“He’s terribly scarred,” Allison said. “I’m so sorry, Hattie.”
“Oh,” Hattie said, keeping her gaze on the window. The fog had burned away at last, and the weak December sunlight picked out the bare stalks of the rosebushes. “That’s a sad thing. He was a handsome boy.”
“I remember.”
“He cut Miss Margot, Blake said.” Hattie’s voice was steady now, but weighed down with grief. It was the voice, Allison thought, of one who doesn’t see a way forward.
Allison knew she was too young, and too inexperienced, to offer anything that could ease Hattie’s sorrow. She could say only, “Yes. He’s so angry.”
“But he didn’t hurt you,” Hattie said.
“Not really,” Allison said. “He wouldn’t let me go, and he cut a hank of my hair, but he didn’t hurt me. Well, just a scratch on my cheek.” She touched it with her fingers. It hadn’t been deep enough even to bandage, and it was already nearly healed.
Hattie turned to look at her. Her voice shook as she said, “You musta been scared, you poor chile, but you know, I don’t think he ever meant it. It’s the fire. The scars. They’ve changed him, hurt his mind, maybe.”
“That makes sense,” Allison said gently. “Anyone would be changed.”
Hattie gave her a tremulous smile. “You’re the sweetest chile,” she said. “Sitting here and listening to me go on.”
“I like being here. I like being in your kitchen. And it’s one place I know Mother and Papa will never come.”
Hattie sighed, and wiped her eyes one final time. “I’m sure your mama and papa love you, Miss Allison.”
Allison shook her head. “No,” she said. She spoke with regret, but it was nothing like the grief Hattie was feeling, and she knew it. “No, I don’t think they do, Hattie. I guess mothers and fathers don’t always love their children.”
Hattie dropped her apron and smoothed it over her lap. “That’s a hard truth, and I can’t deny it. It was that way for me.”
Allison leaned forward, surprised by this confidence. “Was it, Hattie? Your mama, your papa—”
Hattie gave her head a shake. “I didn’t have no papa, Miss Allison. And my mama—well, I s’pose she did the best she could. We had some mighty hard times, but I s’pose my mama did the best she could.”
Allison put an impulsive hand over Hattie’s, finding her
skin warm and slightly rough. “Do you think that’s it, Hattie? They do the best they can?”
“It’s the Christian thing to think, Miss Allison. I never had no babies, but I sure do know being a mama is hard.” Hattie removed her hand from beneath Allison’s, but gently. She put her hands on the table edge to push herself up.
“My mother didn’t want babies,” Allison said. “She never wanted to be a mother.”
“Oh, now. I expect she changed her mind once you came along.”
“No, she didn’t. She told me. She didn’t want me.”
Hattie sank back down in her chair. “Oh, poor chile. That must hurt your heart something fierce. I always thought, if you grow up with enough food and a safe place to live, that meant you were lucky.”
“You didn’t have enough food, Hattie?”
“No, Miss Allison. Not till I came here to work for the Benedicts. I surely didn’t.”
Allison stared at her empty hand lying on the table. “I did. There was plenty of food. I just wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.”
Hattie drew a sharp breath. “How’s that?”
Allison watched her fingers curl into a fist, then open again. “There was food. I was supposed to eat it, but then I was supposed to throw it up.”
“I don’t—that doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s what my mother’s done, for years. It’s how she stays so thin.”
“But you don’t do that, do you, Miss Allison? That can’t be good for a person.”
Allison’s laugh made a sad, hollow little sound. “No, I don’t do that, Hattie. I hate that. I just—I sort of stopped eating.”
“I thought you just didn’t like my cooking. I know I’m not too good at fancy cooking, but that’s what Mrs. Edith wants, so I—” She gave a shrug. “I’m glad to hear it wasn’t that, why you didn’t want to eat.”
“Mother says I’m too fat. She hates me to get fat.”
“She can’t mean it!” Hattie protested. “A pretty girl like you!”
Allison looked up into Hattie’s sympathetic face. “You can’t imagine, Hattie. You can’t imagine how twisted up it all is, with my mother and me.”
Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 28