Thunder Heights

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  When she opened the door and looked again at Althea’s room, it was to see it with new eyes. In the beginning the room had seemed to reject her, to hold her away as if she did not belong there. But the strangeness was gone, as if the room had warmed to her, as it had not done before.

  Had her grandfather carried Althea here to place her upon this very bed? Had she lain here in death, her lovely body still clothed in the very habit her daughter wore tonight? It must have been that way. Perhaps this was why the room seemed different now. She knew its secret, knew its sorrow, and because she knew she belonged to it.

  She took off the habit and spread it gently upon the bed. Tomorrow before she posed for Booth, she would clean away the stain as best she could, and mend the rent in the cloth. It was not knowing that had troubled her for so long. Now she knew the worst there was to know, and in embracing tragedy and making it part of her own knowledge, it became less instead of greater.

  She would not allow her mother’s accident to frighten her. As soon as it was possible to find a good horse, she would ride these hills herself. She would mend her mother’s riding habit and wear it with love and pride and joy. But first of all, she would wear it in posing for Booth.

  After breakfast the following morning she worked for a while on the habit, then put it on and went upstairs to the nursery. It was fortunate that Ross had given up her education in Orrin Judd’s affairs, since this would leave her mornings free to pose for Booth.

  He was waiting for her in the big bare room that he had changed very little. He needed only a few essentials for his work, he said, and had added no new furnishings. An old table for his painting equipment was adequate, and he wanted no rugs he might spill paint upon. His easel occupied a place where the light was good, and he posed Camilla facing him.

  “We’ll leave the face for the last,” he said. “I want to get into the mood of the picture again before I touch that. Today I’ll pose you standing, so that I can do further work on the color of the habit, and catch the way the folds of material hang.”

  His mood was bright and incisive this morning, and she felt in him an eagerness to be at work once more on this picture. His hands were light when he touched her, turning her this way and that, seeking to match the pose of the woman in the picture. Though his manner was impersonal, Camilla was sharply aware of him, and the very fact made it difficult for her to assume the pose he wished.

  When he got to work at his painting, she was more comfortable because then he seemed to forget her as a woman, so that something of her self-consciousness faded.

  The utter quiet of posing for him now opened her mind to a flood of saddening thoughts. Though she could not see the picture from where she stood she could remember it all too well. Fourteen years ago Althea Judd had worn this habit in warm and vital life. She had begun posing for this very picture that Booth would now finish with her daughter for a model. Just such a rearing, fighting beast as Booth had depicted in his picture had flung Althea from her saddle, killing her. Should the picture be finished? Camilla wondered suddenly. Or should it be hidden away and forgotten forever?

  “You’re tired, aren’t you?” Booth said. “I mustn’t weary you. Sit down a moment and let yourself go limp.”

  She realized that her body ached with its effort to hold her pose, and she was glad to relax and pull her thoughts back from their futile path.

  He brought a chair for her, and she sat down in it gratefully. Now as he worked on without reference to her as a model, she could watch him as she had seldom had the opportunity to do. His thin, proud nose, his faintly arrogant mouth and gloom-ridden eyes were disturbing in their melancholy. Yet elation had kindled him this morning, and he painted for a while as if his strokes were sure and the picture promised well.

  It was a shame, she thought, that a man who was so keenly an artist should be buried in a place like Thunder Heights. What did he ask of the future? Why had he remained here, when there could be so little within these walls to make him happy? She wished she might question him, but she had never quite dared.

  “Why don’t you plan a trip to New York soon?” she suggested, following the trend of her thoughts along a fairly safe course. “Perhaps you could take Aunt Hortense with you and give her a whirl in the city.”

  For a few moments he did not look at her, or answer, but worked in concentration with his brush. Then he set his palette down and came to stand before her, studying her intently.

  “How eager you are to make us happy, Cousin. And how frustrating you must find us when we resist. I doubt that we’re meant to be a happy family, so don’t break your heart over us.”

  “I can’t help worrying,” she said. “I’ve come here unasked by any of you, and Grandfather’s no longer here to make the rules. I know I’ve never been welcome as far as your mother is concerned. But isn’t there something I can do that would please her?”

  “If taking her on a trip to New York will please you, I’ll do it, Camilla. You’re the one with a capacity for happiness that mustn’t be dampened. Who knows, perhaps it really would do her good.”

  “And you, too,” Camilla said.

  His laughter had a dry sound. “I’m content with my work. As long as it goes well, there’s nothing more I’ll ask of you for the moment. Shall we get back to it again? Do you suppose this time you can try for more life in your pose? It’s the body beneath the gown that matters. Folds of cloth are lifeless in themselves.”

  His hands were light on her shoulders again, turning her. He was so close that his touch was almost an embrace, and she had a curious desire to run from it, as if there was a need to save herself in time from the dark forces that drove this man. But she held herself quiet and submissive beneath his hands, allowing him to turn her as he wished.

  He stepped back and looked at her, clearly not pleased with the result. “No,” he said, and his tone was no longer gentle, “You haven’t caught it. You’re merely a pretty young woman in a riding habit, posing in a studio. And that’s not enough.”

  There was a sting to his words that brought her head up in an instinctive challenge. At once he stepped toward her and put his fingers at her throat, just under her chin. How cool his touch was. As if all the fire in this man burned at the core and never came to the surface.

  “That’s it—keep your head high like that. Be angry with me, if you like.” The pressure of his fingers was suddenly hard against her flesh. She drew back from his touch in confusion, and he shook his head at her ruefully.

  “You must help me in this, Cousin. I want you to be, not merely an attractive girl, but a beautiful, angry, spirited woman, struggling furiously with a horse that must not be allowed to get out of control.”

  His description made her feel awkward and inadequate. “But you’re not painting my face today,” she reminded him. “What does my expression matter?”

  “I wish I could make you understand,” he said more quietly. “Whatever is in your face will be reflected in the lines of your body. As your body comes to life, so will your garments reveal spirit. After all, I want to paint a woman, my dear. The woman you are, if you will let yourself go. You should have seen Althea when she posed for this picture. I was only twenty-one at the time, and she was an inspiration. I’ll confess I found her irresistible.”

  With every word, Camilla felt less spirited and less fascinating. “I’m not my mother,” she said defensively. “People are always telling me how exciting she was, but I know I’m not—”

  His two hands on her shoulders stopped her as he shook her almost roughly. “You must never talk like that! You have more than your mother had, if you’ll only realize it. Your bone structure is better—the planes of your face are finer, keener. There’s a fire in you too—I’ve glimpsed it at times. But you keep it banked. Your mother had a confidence you lack. With confidence, a woman can be anything.”

  He let her go and turned back to his worktable.

  “We’ve done enough this morning,” he said. “I’ve upse
t you, and I didn’t mean to. Let’s try again tomorrow.”

  She did not know what to say to him, how to answer him. How could she be for him what she knew very well she was not?

  He looked up from cleaning his brushes and saw her standing there helplessly. The quick flash of a smile lit his face.

  “There,” he said, “I’ve hurt you and I’m sorry. It will go better tomorrow. You’ll see. The fault isn’t yours, so don’t distress yourself. If I can’t make you see what I want, if I can’t bring you to life for this picture, then the blame is mine. Will you forgive me, Cousin, and let me try again tomorrow?”

  She nodded mutely in the face of his kindness and went quickly out of the room and down the stairs, feeling shaken and bewildered. How foolish she had been to think posing for Booth’s picture would be a simple and wholly pleasant experience. In a strange, contrary way it had been almost like having him make love to her. The method was indirect and rather exciting, and made her wonder what move he might make next. Made her wonder, too, how she might receive it.

  THIRTEEN

  As Booth predicted, the posing went better for a few days after that. But more, Camilla felt, because Booth tried harder to put her at ease, to give her confidence, than because she really rose to the perfection he wanted from her.

  Now Letty came in to watch while he worked, and as a result something of the personal climate between artist and model which had come into uneasy existence that first day was lessened. Now Camilla was aware of it only in an occasional look Booth bent upon her, in an occasional touch of his hand.

  He made no objection to Letty’s presence, and did not seem to mind it. She would sit near a window, crocheting, with Mignonette curled at her feet, seldom speaking, offering little distraction. Once during the morning, she might leave her chair and go to stand behind Booth, studying the picture as he painted. Only then did her presence seem to make him faintly uncomfortable. Once Camilla thought he might speak to her impatiently, but he managed to keep any irritation he felt to himself. After a moment Letty returned quietly to her chair, as if she sensed his mood, and she did not look at the picture again for several days.

  One morning when Booth stopped the posing session early, Letty invited Camilla to her room.

  “If you’ve nothing pressing to do,” she said, “perhaps you’d like to help me with a task that may interest you.”

  Ever since the day when the saucer of tea had made Mignonette sick, Camilla had experienced a constraint when she was with Letty. She had reproached herself for this feeling, considering it unjustified. She did not want to listen to Hortense’s dropping of hints, and yet the actuality of what had happened remained as a bar to the friendship she had previously felt for Letty. There was no reason to avoid her, however, and perhaps it might even be possible to return to more comfortable ground with her aunt, and clear up some of the things that were troublesome, if they could have a good talk.

  This was the first time she had been invited into Aunt Letty’s private retreat, and she looked about the small room with interest. In one corner a second floor tower bulged into a circular addition to the room, with windows all around and a padded window seat. The wall over the bed sloped beneath a slanting roof, and the entire expanse of the angled wall was covered with pictures of one sort and another, so that only a trace of sand-colored wallpaper showed between them here and there.

  While Letty knelt to pull a box from under the bed, Camilla studied the pictures on the slanting wall. Some of them were clearly Hudson River scenes—both sketches and engravings—but there were also scenes from abroad, glimpses of castles and mountains, glens and lochs.

  “This looks like Walter Scott country,” she said to Letty.

  Her aunt was lifting folders and envelopes from the box and piling them on the bed. “It is. Just a few memories of a lovely year I spent in Scotland when I was a young girl.”

  “And did you meet a young man in the Highlands and give your heart away in the proper romantic fashion?” Camilla asked.

  Letty smiled, but there was a flush in her cheeks. “Oh, I met several, and perhaps I did give my heart away for a little while. But Papa didn’t approve, and I took it back after a time. It was nothing very serious. Perhaps I always had too many story-book heroes in my mind, to be satisfied with the men I met in real life.”

  Camilla curled herself up comfortably on Letty’s bed, wanting now to pursue this topic.

  “What about Aunt Hortense? Why has she never married? Did no young men ever come to Westcliff?”

  “Oh, they came,” Letty said. “Papa’s name was always enough to bring them. But Hortense had an unfortunate faculty for wanting only what someone else had.”

  “What do you mean?” Camilla asked.

  Letty’s gaze seemed to turn upon something far away in the past. “There was one man who came to Westcliff—I can remember him as if it were yesterday. He looked as I imagine a poet might look. And he could quote poetry too—in a voice that sounded like one of our mountain streams, sometimes whispering, sometimes thundering.”

  “My father’s voice was like that,” Camilla said. “I always loved the way he read poetry.”

  “Yes, I know.” Letty’s silver braids bent low over the papers she was sorting.

  The tone of her voice startled Camilla. “This was the man Hortense fell in love with?”

  There was sad assent in Letty’s sigh.

  “Was he a schoolteacher?”

  “Yes, dear,” Letty said. “I see you’ve guessed. It was your father Hortense loved, and she would have no one else.”

  “So that’s it?” Camilla was thoughtful. “Did my mother know?”

  “Hortense took care to let everyone know. She didn’t behave very well, I’m afraid. She always claimed that he would have married her, if Althea hadn’t stolen him from her. Of course that wasn’t true. He never looked at anyone but Althea. She was always the lovely one—the lucky one. They fell in love at their first meeting, and since Papa wanted someone else for Althea, there was nothing to do but run off. Althea told me that night and I helped her get away. Papa never forgave me for that.”

  There were tears in Letty’s eyes.

  “I never knew,” Camilla said. “Poor Aunt Hortense.”

  “It has been difficult for her. When she looks at you she sees two people who hurt her, two people she has never forgiven. You must help her to get over that, my dear. Be patient with her.”

  Camilla leaned back against a poster of the bed. For the first time she was beginning to understand the intensity of dislike she had seen in Hortense’s eyes. What insult it must have added to injury when Orrin Judd had left his fortune to the daughter of Althea and John King.

  “Was it because Aunt Hortense knew she would never marry that she wanted to adopt a child?” she asked.

  Letty’s hands moved vaguely among the papers she had heaped on the bed. “That was so long ago. I—I don’t remember the details. I suppose she must have felt there would be an emptiness in her life without a child. We needed someone young in this house. I was glad to see Booth come. He was such a solemn, handsome little boy, and so determined about what he wanted.”

  “Why didn’t she adopt a baby?”

  Letty shrugged. “I only remember that he was ten when she brought him here, and he was already quite talented as an artist.”

  “But what an odd thing to do,” Camilla said. “Surely if a woman wanted a child, she would want one from babyhood on.”

  For some reason Letty seemed agitated. Once more she was ready for a flight from the unpleasant. “It all happened so long ago—why trouble about it now?”

  “Because of Aunt Hortense,” Camilla insisted. “I want to find some way to make her happy here at Thunder Heights, and if I’m to do that, I ought to understand her better than I do.”

  Letty changed the subject firmly. “There’s been enough talk about the past. That isn’t why I asked you here. I thought you might like to help me sort my collection of herb
receipts. I can’t make head or tail of things the way they are.”

  Letty gathered up a handful of loose sheets on which clippings had been pasted in long yellowing columns, and dropped them in Camilla’s lap.

  “What I’d like to do is to separate the medicinal information from the cooking receipts and catalogue them both. And I’d like to sort the receipts into categories so that when I want one for mint jelly, I don’t have to hunt through a mixture like this.”

  Knowing other topics were closed for the moment, Camilla set to work with interest. Now that she was acquainted with the herbs in Letty’s garden, the next step to their use was fascinating. She read through a receipt for Turkish rose petal jam, and one for marigold custard. There were directions for making saffron cake, for rose and caraway cookies, and tansy pudding. Sometimes Aunt Letty had written her own pertinent comments in the margins, or her own suggestions for changes in the ingredients.

  “I should think,” Camilla said, her interest growing, “that you should have enough material here for a book about herbs. You’ve grown them and worked with them for years and you’re a real authority. Other people should be interested in what you have to say.”

  “Do you really think I might do something with all this?” Letty’s eyes brightened.

  “Oh, I do!” Camilla warmed to the idea. “All you need is to sort it out and make a plan for presenting it. I’ll help you and—”

  There was a knock at the door and Grace looked into the room. “If you please, mum, there’s a note for you,” she said, and handed a blue envelope to Camilla.

  When she had gone, Camilla opened it and read the note. It was from Nora Redfern. Would Miss King permit Mr. Granger to bring her to tea at Blue Beeches one afternoon next week? Nora was looking forward to knowing her better.

  Camilla held out the note to Letty. “How very nice—I’d love to go.”

  Letty read the note doubtfully. “I don’t know. We haven’t been on speaking terms with Blue Beeches for a long while, you know.”