Columbella
Page 20
“No, I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”
He agreed gratefully, and after a word to Leila and Mike he moved away.
When Alex came outside he too came to speak to us, and to compliment Leila. Her moment of doubt when she had seen her mother on the stairs seemed to have faded, and by the time Catherine appeared with her own group of satellites, Steve among them, I felt she might be in a stronger position to resist whatever her mother might say or do.
For a time Catherine did nothing, and we finished our supper in peace. Perhaps she was all the more a center of attention tonight because she had been robbed in San Juan the night before. Jewel thieves who preyed on wealthy women were not uncommon in the luxury hotels of the Caribbean, but to have one of St. Thomas’ own figure in such a happening brought the matter close to home and the island was buzzing.
That Catherine was aware of us, I knew, but she stayed on the far side of the terrace and I wondered if she could be a little fearful of any close comparison with her lovely young daughter. That was too much to hope for, however, and eventually she wound her way to the wall where we sat drinking coffee.
I saw her coming and looked about for King. He was across the terrace, beside Maud, and I knew his attention had focused upon that brilliant figure in the red flame of a dress as she came toward us, moving to the music almost as if she danced. Her hands were empty, free. One of them toyed with the gilded shell on its chain and there was something so glowing, so dazzling about her tonight that I knew she had no fear of being eclipsed by her young daughter. Because of that very fact, perhaps she would be satisfied to leave the child alone.
“Hello, darling,” she said as she reached Leila. Her eyes noted the yellow dress, but she made no comment. Instead, she looked at me, her smile sly. “Are you feeling better by now, Miss Jessica-Jessica? I’m afraid that was quite a shock you had this morning.”
Beside me Leila made a slight sound. For an instant I thought she was about to speak indignantly, but Steve broke in and the chance was lost.
“What do you mean, Cathy? What sort of shock?”
Catherine told him then, in detail. How she had seen me waiting behind the library and had thought it might be fun to give me a bit of a scare.
Steve did not laugh in appreciation of her story as she seemed to expect, but gave her the same look I had seen on his face when he had burst into her room at Caprice in time to take away the belt with which she threatened me.
“Sometimes I think you’re asking for a whole lot of trouble,” he said and there was cool disapproval in his tone. She flung him a slanted glance that was not entirely amiable. Not until she explained how King had come tearing out of the library and for a minute she hadn’t known what he might do to her—all because of his sympathy for poor Jessica-Jessica—did Steve’s face darken.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked her. “Did he frighten you?” and I suspected that it was not consideration that prompted him to be critical, but something more wary that might have to do with self-preservation.
At his question, Catherine did a turn that set the band of ruffles at her knees flaring and came back to him mockingly. “Of course he frightened me. But then—I like to be frightened. If it doesn’t go too far. I don’t like to be hurt, but it’s always exciting to be frightened.”
Alex had appeared behind her and I knew he had heard her words. He slipped a finger beneath the gold chain at the back of her neck and pulled it with a little jerk so that the shell pressed tightly against her throat. For an instant I saw real fear in her eyes. She swung around, nearly snapping the chain.
“Oh, Alex!” she cried. “You needn’t take me so literally. I thought it was King.”
He smiled with little mirth and I was reminded of the way he had looked this afternoon when I had noted the flecks of yellow around the iris of his eyes. Across the terrace, King watched us, his face grim in flickering torchlight.
Malcolm strummed a sudden chord on his guitar, arresting attention. As if at a signal Catherine laughed and turned toward him. He continued to play without singing, and it was as if he drew her toward him with the music. She seemed to forget us all, moving like a sleepwalker. Guests stirred out of her way, and I saw the looks that passed between them—knowing looks, as if they had seen this happen before.
The man began to sing as she neared him—words and music which I did not know. Catherine fixed her unwavering gaze upon him and began to dance, only a foot or two away from him, so that her scarlet ruffles brushed his white trousers as she stepped forward and back. He sang on, now and then smiling, moving slightly to the strum of his own time, matching her steps with his own. Catherine seemed unaware of the sudden quiet around her, of people watching. It was island dancing, slow, sinuous, with a beat that got into the blood. She danced almost in one place, yet with all of her body, with supple movements of her shoulders, her head, the long swaying column of her neck. And all the while that golden shell danced upon her breast, shining red as if it too were fired by flame.
I forced myself to look away from the spellbound figure of the dancer, and saw that Steve was watching her with what I was coming to think of as his unicorn look. Leila’s lips were raptly parted. The spell had touched her as well and she was breathing quickly—though she seemed a little frightened at the same time, as if she could not altogether lose herself in a magic that was hardly benevolent. To me she resembled a clean shaft of sunlight there on the dark terrace—something healthy that belonged to a sunny daytime world. I wanted to step between her and any sight of the dancer, but I did not move.
Maud Hampden broke the spell—or tried to. She rose from her table and spoke in a voice that could be heard across the terrace.
“Excuse me, please,” she said, and walked with dignity toward the house.
She did not so much as glance at Catherine and once more guests moved aside to make a pathway, and there was a murmur, the beginning of talk. King did not go with her, but stayed where he was, his face no less grim and forbidding than before.
Everyone else was watching Catherine again, but I was more interested in Leila. Perspiration beaded her forehead and I could sense her tension as clearly as though I reached out and touched her.
With a quick gesture Catherine raised her hands to the golden coils of her hair. Carelessly, never missing a beat, she plucked out combs and pins and let them drop to the flagstones until her hair came loose and spilled over her hands. She shook it back with a flick of her head and the wind caught the mass of it and whipped it free about her shoulders.
Steve said nothing, but there was excitement in him now, barely held in check.
“Somebody’d better stop her!” Mike said grimly.
The sound of his voice was startling on the quiet terrace. The ring of it cut through the sound of the music. Catherine turned slowly, still without missing a step, and came toward us, her eyes green-gold, her small cat chin tilted. I expected her to say something to Mike, but she paid no attention to him as she held out a hand to Leila.
“Come, darling. Come and dance with me!”
She pulled the girl to her feet, though Leila tried futilely to hold back. “No—no, please, Cathy!” she begged.
I knew what Catherine meant to do. Out there on the terrace Leila’s humiliation would be complete. Catherine would know very well how to make her look awkward and foolish—a silly, clumsy child in a butter-yellow dress, a girl who would stumble over her own feet and be as nothing beside this graceful, wrongfully intentioned woman.
I had been there before. I could feel what was happening along my own nerves. It was part of my tissue, my brain, my memory. Leila’s terror of such humiliation was mine—to be experienced sickeningly all over again. But I was no longer as young as she. I need not stand by and endure what was about to happen.
I put a firm hand on Leila’s arm. “You needn’t go out there if you don’t want to.”
“You come then!” She pulled at my hand. “The music is wonderful. Come, Jessica-Jessica. I’ll teach you how we dance here in our Islands.”
It was I whom everyone watched now, though I was too angry to care. Catherine’s fingers hurt my wrist, reminding me of a belt, of a car, but anger sustained me. I spoke softly, so that only she could hear.
“I’m strong enough to hurt you badly,” I said, and I moved my hand, breaking her hold, fastening my own fingers about her small-boned wrist.
At once her eyes told me that I had gone too far. There was rising hysteria in them and her free hand came up to strike at me, the fingers tipped with sharp red nails. But before she could touch me, King was across the terrace, swinging her away with a grip that made her cry out in pain.
“Try anything more and you’ll be sorry,” he said, his voice low and deadly, so that only our own small group heard him.
She pulled away and recovered herself, to go dancing back to the guitar player. Beside me, Leila was trembling, her face turned away from her father. Mike put an arm about her, steadying her, holding her tightly. Steve was laughing openly at King, mocking him, I thought, asking for trouble.
King paid no attention. With a last look for me, he strode across the terrace to the house and a few moments later when I looked up I saw him standing at the rail of the gallery upstairs. It was as if he had found it necessary to put a safe distance between him and that dancing woman in red.
Catherine’s performance was not yet over. There had been a moment during our interchange when an embarrassed rustling and a murmur of conversation had broken out. Everyone watched, but uncomfortably, as though wishing she would stop. Now, suddenly, it was quiet and she held them again.
“You promised me a song tonight,” she said to Malcolm. “You promised me a Calypso about Columbella!”
He agreed, white teeth flashing. “Yes—a song for Columbella.” The guitar notes underscored his voice as he began to sing.
“Columbella, she is not for you,
Columbella, she is not for true.
Down in the ocean far and deep
Columbella she is sure to weep.
Down where the sand has a golden hue,
Columbella’s sure to weep for you.
Up on the island, bright in the sun,
Columbella’s golden days be done.”
The chords died away and the singer was silent, still smiling, waiting, as his audience waited, tension mounting.
The smile had fled from Catherine’s face. She cried out suddenly, crossly, like a petulant child. “I don’t care for that song! It’s a foolish song. Never let me hear you sing it again—do you understand? Columbella’s golden days are only just beginning. Sing something else—sing something else quickly!”
He gave her a careless nod and obliged with a song that was safe and familiar. At once Catherine turned toward the watchers. “Someone come dance with me! I want a partner!”
Steve slipped smoothly out upon the terrace to meet her. He danced without self-consciousness, his eyes both mocking and admiring. He did not touch her but danced facing her, matching his steps to hers, matching the movement of neck and shoulder and hip. The golden columbella on its chain danced with them. The shell and the unicorn!
I glanced about at the watchers and saw Alex Stair, his bearded face enigmatic as ever, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. As I puzzled about him he turned to the woman next to him and drew her out upon the terrace. As if at a signal other couples joined them.
The spell was broken. I felt an enormous relief. What might have happened, I did not know, but I had the feeling that a time of danger had been safely passed. Surely nothing else would happen now.
Leila, too, felt release. She covered her face with her hands and Mike patted her shoulder as he might have patted a child. His look met mine over her head.
“What would she have done?” I asked and he knew I meant Catherine.
“Who knows? It’s always different. She winds herself up and up—and sometimes somebody gets hurt. I’m glad you stopped her from hurting Leila.”
I was still angry. “Why doesn’t someone keep it from happening? Why doesn’t someone stop it before it begins?”
Mike answered me curtly. “How? What do you do—lock her up?”
Leila turned on him, still shivering. “Don’t talk like that! You don’t understand. It’s just that she’s high-spirited. She’s not dull like other people. It’s fun for her to do dramatic things, and—and—”
“Oh, wake up!” said Mike rudely.
She stared at him for a moment of shock. Then she said, “I’m going inside,” and walked away from us.
Mike would have gone after her, but I drew him back. “Let her go. She’ll feel better by herself. I’m glad you spoke to her as you did. You’re young enough to tell her off.”
He grinned at me wryly. “She’s only a kid. There’s plenty of time for her to grow up and get over her crush on my brother. It’s a good thing you’ve come here, Miss Abbott, Leila likes you.”
I wasn’t too sure she would continue to like me after tonight. I looked up at the gallery and saw that King was still there. Over the intervening space our glances met and he nodded to me in grim reassurance. He too knew that disaster had been averted. For the moment at least.
Behind us I heard a torch hiss furiously. Sudden drops of rain pelted my cheek, and overhead a patch of clouds had turned black and roiling, though the sky was still clear and starlit elsewhere, with a plump moon rising from the direction of St. John. As we scattered for shelter a gust struck the terrace and the flamboyant thrashed its umbrella top, setting scarlet petals adrift on the wind. Rain came down with tropical force, striking the tiles and spattering back, stinging my ankles as Mike hurried me toward the gallery.
Indoors Malcolm began to sing “Poinciana,” the tune weaving hauntingly through the sounds of the downpour outside. Guests had returned to their dancing, moving in the center of the great hall. When Mike left me to look for his brother I turned my back on the scene and stood at one side of the glass doors, peering through at the terrace. A yard boy was extinguishing the hissing torches one by one, but those remaining threw a reflection of flame across wet stones, and all the while the flame tree—the poinciana—bowed to slashing rain, yielding up its blossoms and heavy seed pods. Even as I watched, the downpour lessened. Wind swept away the overhead clouds, and the night was bright again with a rising moon.
I slipped along a wall behind the tables and went upstairs unnoticed.
King stood alone at the open door to the gallery, still watching the scene outdoors as I had watched from downstairs. He turned as I reached the upper hall.
“Leila?” I asked softly.
He came toward me. “She’s gone to her room.”
I nodded. “That’s best for now. I don’t think shell return to the party. What happened has upset her.”
“Yes—I saw.”
Hesitantly I ventured a question. “Isn’t Catherine’s behavior too extreme to be normal? Isn’t it a—a sickness?”
“Probably. I’ve talked to a doctor or two about her. Perhaps there’s some truth in that old Biblical idea of possession by evil spirits. I suppose we’re all so possessed at times. We ask ourselves what got into us. But in a case like this, what can anyone do against the will of the person involved? I can’t imagine Catherine in a psychiatrist’s office when she thinks herself saner than any of us. She enjoys being the way she is. And until she puts herself across some dangerous line, no one can force her to anything. She’s coming close to that now.”
I was silent,
suffering because he was suffering. From out of doors the rushing sound of the wind reached me, while nearer at hand party sounds drifted up from downstairs. Yet there in the hallway—at the heart of things—it was still and hushed. At the heart of my life.
I went into his arms to offer the only comfort I had to give, and he did not hold me away. For a few seconds time stopped around us and we were aware only of each other. How intensely I wanted the hurting of his arms about me, how willingly I gave my mouth to the hard pressure of his. There was no gentleness in him now.
Somewhere nearby a door opened and then closed softly. King let me go and we stepped apart, never entirely free in our love. The hall was quiet, all the doors tightly closed. I was afraid.
“Who was it?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Better go to your room now, darling. I’ll get back to the party.”
“When will you leave the house?” I asked him urgently. “Because you must leave soon—you must!”
He turned away from me without answering and I watched him go down the stairs.
A moment later I was in my room, with the door closed and my back against it, waiting for the sickening thud of my heart to quiet, for the heavy beat of my pulses to lessen. This could not go on. Either he must leave or I would have to. I wanted him openly, honorably, without hidden, guilty meetings, and I suspected that he wanted me in the same way. But Catherine stood between, governed by her own hysterical hating, and increasingly dangerous.
Gradually I quieted, gradually the room about me made itself known, so that small matters began to ask for my attention, informing me that all was not as I had left it. Both gallery doors had been closed when I went downstairs. Now one of them stood open, with bamboo-green draperies blowing out. When I went to fasten them back I found the cloth wet, as though they had been caught outside in the rain. The shower had struck this side of the house and while the wet floor of the gallery was already drying in the wind, the storm must have dashed a good deal of water against the house.