Mandy had no private words with Thone. She’d scarcely seen old Elsie, and her husband, Burt, was only a bent figure in the gardens. She’d scarcely spoken to Ione.
Ione, who came and went. Who listened, sometimes. Sometimes not. Who, when she joined in, brought the talk down lumpishly. Amanda knew, now, what Fanny had meant. Ione couldn’t spin, spurning the earth on wide wings of abstractions. Somehow she always came to a detail. She was bounded, shrewd and capable, busy and small, but lacking a dimension.
Did she watch, though? Mandy didn’t know. She hadn’t had time; she was dizzy.
They snatched a supper, Saturday, because there was going to be an evening party. People were coming in. Mandy must dress up a bit, they told her.
Down in her room, at the bottom of the house, she creamed her face and bathed and breathed a little. She suffered, in this space of self-communion, an attack of honest doubt.
If Ione did not like her, if there was no warmth, no welcome, it was far from surprising. Here I come, thought Mandy, and Tobias just goes overboard. I walk in here and take him over. And am barely polite to her, my hostess. I don’t even try to take her into the talk. I sit and goggle at him and he loves it. Of course he would. I’m young and I do understand what he says and I lap it all up. If she feels like murdering me, no wonder! Thone, too. How can he possibly like me? Adores his father. But here come I …
Mandy looked into her own troubled eyes in the glass. But I didn’t mean to. She begged her own pardon. The eyes in the glass refused it. “You’d better git for home, Amanda Garth,” they said. “Now that you see yourself, it isn’t pretty, is it?”
She went up to the party. She wore a pale satin frock. It was an icy green. It fell off her shoulders demurely, and it billowed in shining folds below her knees. But the cut at her hips and breast was not demure. She’d brushed her short hair back from her ears. She wore no jewelry, not even a flower, nothing to break the shimmering lines.
Tobias put both hands out. “Ah, here’s my girl! Here’s Amanda! Lovely … lovely … Isn’t she lovely?” Her hands in his, Amanda was drawn forward.
“Lovely indeed!” said one of his cronies reverently.
“This—You say your daughter!” squeaked another, touching his eyeglasses.
“I only say she might have been,” Tobias glowed.
“I say, Toby, you’re going to paint that—er—face, of course?”
“If she’ll sit,” said the artist fondly. “She’s not a model, George. She is herself a painter.”
“Inherited your genius, too, eh?”
“Oh, no,” said Amanda. She turned to look for the guest who had spoken. She saw Fanny, in white and silver, flip a greeting from another group. Then she saw Ione.
Ione, the little lady, the hostess, the chatelaine. Plump and neat in her sleeved beige gown that was folded at the bosom. Sleek and sedate, white hair meticulously coiffed, brows brushed, cheeks rosy and with a faint frost of powder. Lips smiling. Perhaps it was the hostess’s smile, pasted on, concealing a mind full of lists and tasks. But the dark eyes, which should have been darting and taking notes and managing this roomful of people, were now, for this moment, fastened on the beauty in ice green. Nothing to be read in that fixed look. It was rather blank. It was rather blind.
Amanda looked away. She murmured something. Her eyes hunted Thone. He was surrounded by three young women, a redhead who never took her eyes off him, a brunette who slouched this way and that, throwing her hips, and a silver blonde in a bouffant skirt, rolling her big eyes, stroking a long soft handkerchief that she held at the corner. Amanda’s lips twitched. She thought, I resign. She let herself down, lowered her own pitch. She would sit this one out. She would retire.
So doing, she defeated her own purpose. For the decision gave her young beauty an uncanny poise. People buzzed around her. In spite of herself, it was Amanda’s night, Amanda’s party.
Fanny came and squeezed her arm. Her eyes were brilliant with a kind of mocking delight, as if to say, “Whatever you’re up to, it’s fun to watch, you pretty young devil.”
Ione stood on her little plump tired feet, smiling and smiling. After a while, Thone edged over. “Sit down, Ione,” he said kindly. “Everything’s going all right.” He drew her to the window seat, sat down beside her himself, and bent toward her to shut away the longing glances of those girls whom he had left twittering uncertainly across the room.
“Seems Amanda’s a wow,” he said, without expression.
“Yes,” said Ione in a rather high voice. In a second she turned to look at him. “Does it annoy you, dear?” He shrugged. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Tobias is much too excited. It isn’t good for him.”
“What can you do?” he murmured.
Her lips turned inward, making her mouth disappear as she bit on them. “Thone, aren’t there such things as blood tests? Blood types?”
“Yes.”
“Were you ever told? Did they make tests, years ago?”
“Well,” he said, crossing a leg, “the thing is, a baby’s blood type isn’t set for pretty near a year. I suppose such tests might show something. It’s all negative, you know. Still they might, for instance, show she could not be the child of my parents. Then again, maybe nothing. If she and I happened to be the same type, d’you see?”
“They never tried that, then?”
“They couldn’t, for a year. By that time they didn’t think it mattered.”
“I suppose it’s still possible?”
“To test us now? I’d be glad to have it settled,” he said harshly. “I happen to know my type. I’m AB.”
“AB,” she repeated.
“It’s an idea, Ione. We could get Dad’s type. But I wonder—if there is a record. Her father is dead, you know. And so is Belle.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “It’s difficult.” She fanned herself with her lacy handkerchief, daintily. Her small feet swung.
“As far as Dad’s concerned …” Thone turned to look at the room. He saw what was going on. “Oh, God, that picture! Do they always …?”
“Always,” said Ione softly, almost plaintively. “They always ask.” Her dark eyes seemed to give and expect some sympathy. He sat quite still.
“Belle in the Doorway” hung, now, home from the galleries, on the far wall, hidden by folds of cloth. People were turning to face it. The light above it had gone on. Tobias was about to open the curtains. Ione and Thone, at right angles to their informal ranks, could see, quite plainly, Mandy’s profile lifted. The curtains glided with a faint rattling of rings. A solemn hush prevailed in the studio.
Ione’s hand came suddenly to Thone’s cuff. She was peering. She needn’t have nudged him. He was looking at the same thing. At Mandy’s face, twisting with her effort not to weep as she gazed, and the tears welling in spite of that in her lovely eyes.
Tobias didn’t let them look long. Amanda had turned her back. Fanny had stepped up close to her. Fanny was chattering.
“I suppose,” said Ione in a faintly bitter tone, “she has romantic notions about Belle.”
“I’m sure of it.” Thone let a little contempt into his own voice.
“Has she been told about Belle’s death?” Her voice was light, empty. It rode on the surface. Hands played with the handkerchief.
“Oh, yes.”
“Who told her?”
“Fanny.”
“Oh, Fanny? Oh, dear! Then the poor child’s dramatizing, sure enough.”
“You bet she is,” said he.
“Tragedy,” murmured Ione. “Oh, dear!” Her feet swung, alternating. She fanned herself again, beamed brightly at Fanny’s face, which turned momentarily toward them from the crowd, as if she knew they’d said her name.
“Thone—” her feet were suddenly still—”do you feel she’s like Belle?”
He waited a moment. “Somewhat,” he said grudgingly.
She leaned sideways, toward him, as if they swapped gossip behind a fan. “Are you taking your pl
ane tomorrow?”
The stillness of his body was full of caution. His voice said, “I don’t think so. This—she makes me fidgety.” He didn’t meet her eyes.
She put her plump hand on his cuff again. “Don’t worry, my dear,” said Ione, almost crooning. “It’s just a silly romantic girl, walking in a dream.”
“I hope she wakes, then,” said Thone.
“You don’t care for her, do you?” The eyes were shrewd. He shrugged, smiling. “She cares for you, dear.”
“I’d rather she didn’t,” he said. “I hope you’re wrong.”
Ione said thoughtfully. “These young girls and their notions. You never know how deep it goes, now, do you?”
In her head, scraps of purpose whirled, approached a pattern, and fell away. She was thinking, A girl! A girl is worse than a boy! A million times worse! A boy, a man, who’ll go on about his business—that’s one thing. But a girl! Here, always, the way she’s here now. In that dress. Belle all over again, in a girl’s young flesh. Perfumed.… Sweet face weeping for Belle! And Toby, talking, talking, talking … And she, sitting as Belle used to sit, all ears for him! No!
Thone didn’t move. Lace ripped under her fingers. The party foamed around them. He made no sign unless his very immobility had a meaning.
At last he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the three girls were closing in. He rose. Just then Mandy whirled out of the company, fluid and lovely in the shimmering gown, straight to Ione. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she begged. “Please let me. I see Elsie is starting. May I help?”
“No, no, my dear. You just be gay.” Ione wiggled off the seat, dropped on her two feet, rose.
“Is this your sister?” said the blonde, edging in, drawing the kerchief through her fingers languidly.
“This is Amanda Garth,” said Thone flatly. “Whatever is the case, we are most certainly not brother and sister.” Amanda’s head swung. She was beautiful in surprise.
Ione said, in soft lippety-lippety syllables, “I do think, dear, Amanda’s just as glad she cannot be your sister.”
Even the shoulders above the ice-green gown seemed to grow rosier in the tide of blood to Mandy’s face. She staggered a little, couldn’t understand. Her wide eyes went to Ione.
Ione was watching.
The blonde let out a nervous giggle. The brunette shifted her hips contemptuously.
Oh, torn—wide-open! Publicly, in front of these hateful girls! Her heart … Amanda rallied. There was nothing to say. She stood quite still. She only knew Ione was watching. She didn’t know why. She didn’t guess that a little piece of a plan slipped into place. But she felt the malice. It blew on her bare skin. She felt the skin crawl.
She looked up at Thone, forgetting whether she loved him or whether he knew it for sure, now; only wondering if he noticed, too. She thought, with a flicker of fear, that he had noticed.
Ione made a comfortable little purring sound. She tripped away. Thone bent. “If you’re asked, say your blood type is AB,” said his quiet voice in her ear.
“Wh-what?”
He didn’t repeat. He started to name these girls, to introduce them. Mandy’s blood, of whatever type, sang in her veins. He had noticed—noticed something. For now, at last, he conspired!
When the last guest was out the door, Tobias sank down. Ione came behind him to put her firm little paws at his temples, to massage them gently. “Tired, Toby?”
Amanda, sinking in her satin to a chair opposite, watched the hands. Thone was outside, helping unscramble the departing cars.
“Yes, tired,” admitted Tobias. “If I had slept …” He surrendered to the hands, small strong hands, that stroked and molded.
Amanda met Ione’s deep gaze. “Go to bed,” it said.
Mandy rose. “I’m tired, too. Do you mind if I go down?”
Tobias smiled. “Don’t crush your gown. We must have it tomorrow. You must wear it for your portrait.”
“Then she mustn’t have tired eyes,” said Ione archly. “Come, Amanda, let me make sure there’s a light below.”
Halfway down the first flight of stairs, Ione said, over her shoulder, “Amanda, do you happen to know—have you ever had your blood typed?”
“Uh-huh. It’s AB,” said Mandy promptly, beating the jump of her heart. She paused on the step.
Ione drew back as if to let her pass. Her face was calm. “The light is up,” she said, nodding dismissal.
“Mrs. Garrison,” stammered Mandy, “I can’t thank you enough. This is all so exciting and lovely for me. Please,” she went on, half artfully, half in confusion, “don’t worry over that old baby business. Don’t you see? It’s too late now. It really doesn’t matter any more.”
Ione sighed. “You may be right, my dear,” she said placidly. “Yes, I do think, after all, that’s so. By the way,” she added absently, “I put your handkerchief—do you remember?—on your dresser.”
“Thank you.” Mandy brushed by. “Good night.”
“Sleep well.” Mandy saved her foot from faltering on the step. She looked back up. Ione leaned there, on the banister.
An echo in Mandy’s head said clearly, Peace! The charm’s wound up!
CHAPTER 12.
SUNDAY WAS A WEARY DAY. TOBIAS was haggard. He had not slept for three nights now. Yet, pushed by abnormal energy, he insisted that Mandy pose. So she sat, in light of day and last night’s finery. It felt queer. She, too, was tired. She had not slept well.
All day there was no signal, no private whisper from Thone. They had no real meeting. She realized that they couldn’t have. They must not appear to conspire. But she had to take it on faith that he conspired at all. He was polite to her. Ione could guess whether he were jealous, annoyed, or bored by it all. Guess—but not know.
Tobias could only guess, also. Tobias was aware of his son’s aloofness.
Perhaps it was the artist’s tension that set them all on edge. Mandy kept suppressing the need to sigh off some of the weight of it. It was a dreadful day!
She thought of Kate, who had, she knew, gone to Catalina with Andrew Callahan and assorted friends. She thought of them in full sunlight, free in the light and the air. For to her, the cool studio was beginning to feel like a corner of hell, in which she was chained by ice-green satin. Also, her heart ached with pity and anxiety for this dear man who worked and talked on, as if unseen devils drove him.
A terrible day!
By nightfall, Tobias was desperately weary. Yet he couldn’t rest. And Ione, who had put herself oddly aside all day, moved her hand.
“I do think,” she said in her crooning way, “a little of your medicine, Toby, dear. A few nights of rest …”
“I suppose so.”
“There,” she said. “Of course. It will help, dear. It always does.” A weary gratitude rolled over the artist’s face. He touched her firm little hand and smiled.
“Yes. Please, Ione.”
He took the chloral in a glass of milk. No one was anything but casual about it. Ione prepared the dose. The drug was kept, Amanda noticed with surprise, very handy. It was kept on the shelf back of the convenient little serving bar and liquor cabinet in the studio corner.
Had it always been kept there? Oh, but, if so, she thought, then no one but Belle could have touched it six years ago. She thought, I must be all wrong. Ione doesn’t like me. But that’s all. Nothing’s going to happen.
She was not offered anything to drink.
Monday was a little better. They’d shaken down into a routine. Mandy posed in the morning and again in the afternoon. Tobias worked and lectured at the same time. It was very illuminating. Thone answered the phone, ducked invitations. He sun-bathed on the terrace. Or lazed in a fat chair in the studio sometimes, half listening. He was not—not really—interested in painting.
He was a strangely aloof and self-contained creature.
But when he was there, Mandy leaned away to stay upright, as one leans on the west when a west wind is blowing.
Dinner was a peaceful family affair. Thone polite, Ione presiding. Tobias, eating he knew not what, still talking. Tobias took his dose and went early to bed. After he had gone, there seemed to be nothing to talk about.
Nothing happened.
Tuesday morning Thone ambled out to the small breakfast terrace beyond the kitchen, which got almost no eastern sun and was, as Tobias said, one of the stupidities of the house. Nevertheless, Thone wore shorts and a T shirt and was nearly barefoot, with his feet thrust into the cross straps of some very sketchy slippers. He greeted his father, who sat brooding, watching the light change on the hills.
Ione, in crisp blue cotton, came out with her bustling air of keeping this house. Came swiftly, beaming good morning, the glass pot of steaming coffee in her hand. Her neat little feet pattered on the paving stones. She tripped. Perhaps she tripped on a seam. On nothing.
The hot liquid cascaded, all of it, over Thone’s bare right foot.
Mandy, coming sleepily up from below the outside way, heard Ione scream, heard Tobias cry out, and Thone’s voice bluing the air with blunt language. She ran up the last few steps, braced for catastrophe.
But it was only his foot. A bad burn, to be sure. Ankle, instep, and toes. But only an accident. A stupid, unimportant accident.
“Oh, what a pity!” Ione kept saying. “Oh, poor boy …” Tobias went tottering to call a doctor. Burt, the gardener, came to help support Thone’s weight and get him into the house. Thone was now silent, very silent. Tense, of course, with the pain.
The doctor came promptly and bound it up, saying comforting words. Not too deep a burn. A matter of days.… Thone said little or nothing. The Garrisons did all the talking. They walked at last to the door with the departing doctor.
“Mandy! Come here!”
She went quickly near where he sat in the studio, with his poor foot stiff and helpless.
“Mandy …” His fingers went around her wrist. He pulled her close. He was looking up. His face was utterly changed. The mask was gone. An agony in his eyes had nothing to do with physical pain. “Mandy, I’m scared!”
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