Wondering why she spent so much of her time at this unbearable place, Melrose said, "I'm very sorry." He plucked a cigarette from his own gold case.
"My late husband was of an old Italian family, the Viacinni di Belamante. By luck, I am the Princess Rosetta Viacinni. But call me Rose. I was born in Bayswater." Her smile was wan, a little self-deprecating. "And you are-?" She cocked her head.
"Plant. Melrose Plant."
"And are you here for long, Mr. Plant? Are you walking the Brontë way? Are you climbing to the oxygenless heights of Top Withins so that you can faint near its crumbled remains? Are you a Pilgrim?"
"No Pilgrim, no." Melrose grinned. "Quite beautiful country though, isn't it?"
He had seen little of it except for his gloomy meditations by the stream.
"Beautiful? My God!" Her eyebrows rose.
In a bored way she turned her head toward the fire, and Melrose saw she must once have been far more a beauty than this countryside. That beauty had retreated somewhat behind the creased brow and the heavy-lidded eyes, but remained in the high cheekbones, the straight nose, and the elegant posture.
"Viacinni di Belamante?" Melrose looked at the snake-eye of his cigarette, and said, "An Italian nobleman, was he?"
"Oh, yes. A wonderful man, though somewhat fanatical in his politics. He had, surprisingly, a passionate love for England. It was here that I met him-"
As she talked about her dead husband, Melrose could only think, oh no. Would these Italian noblemen be crossing his path now, always, wherever he went? Would he see them strolling in Kew Gardens? In a bookshop near Northampton? Punting on the Cam-? Was he crazy? When had he seen anyone punting on the Cam? It was as if Vivian's deciding to marry one were similar to symptoms one associated with a dread disease: they turned up everywhere-in casual conversation, on Underground signs, in newspapers.
"So," she was saying, "through a little luck, a littler bit of beauty, a great deal of social grace, and a greater deal of finagling, I became a princess." She spread her hands in childlike and disingenuous wonder.
A basso voice that preceded its owner into the room proclaimed, "I heard that, Rose. 'Little bit of beauty,' my eye-" A tall gentleman entered. "You'd have all London at your feet if you'd only go there more often."
Melrose was uncertain as to whether good manners dictated his rising from the sofa for Major George Poges's presence-it could only be Major Poges, despite the mental image Melrose had formed of him. Major Poges he had mistakenly pictured as a stooped, withered army pensioner, black-suited and with rows of antique medals, a plastic shopping bag, and a drool.
This Major Poges (who now sat on the sofa opposite Melrose like a rider who had mounted a horse) had an exuberant self-confidence and a good-humored manner that would have made one overlook any imperfections of face, figure, or clothes. The thing was, there weren't any. Melrose calculated he must be in his late sixties or early seventies, but he was one of those men whose looks, like the Princess herself, were ageless. The taut, slightly ruddy skin; the chilly, but startling blue eyes; the neat gray mustache; the appearance of privilege that he did not exercise when he talked; his perfectly cut tweeds-all of this called up other images in Melrose's mind:
He had seen Major Poges before, oh, not this Major Poges, but his counterpart: at Wimbledon, seated center court in white duck; at Newmarket races in a tweed jacket and cap, binoculars trained on the starting gates; in white tie and tails at the opening of a concert at the Royal Victoria and Albert Hall; at the Proms; in the early mists at Viscount-Somebody's estate in Scotland, sighting along his gun at the bird which simply hung against the light-veiled, malt-colored sky for the sheer delight of dropping as a sacrificial dinner for Major Poges; in pinks galloping over a sea of grass, a warren of fences, his bay leaping hedges with the Quorn or Cottesmore; or cantering along Rotten Row or deer-stalking on the Isle of Mull; at Traquair House, Hambledon Hall, Brown's Hotel… Major Poges was the England there would always be, the essence of anthem.
What in hell was he doing here? In this once-glorious, now shabby house whose owner catered for the likes of the Beastlies.
"Where's the sherry?" Poges asked, grabbing up the decanter by its long cut-glass neck as if he meant to throttle a crane. In disgust he sat down and drew out a leather cigar holder, offered it round, even to the Princess, who merely smiled, wiggling her cigarillo. No, thank you. He settled back, tapping the tips of his shoes with his swagger stick, and frowning. Then he looked up. "Aha! The sherry has found its way down the gullet of the Braine person-ye gods! Have you ever seen so much color? Turquoise, at that. Did she set fire to an Indian reserve?" He ripped away the brown paper from his package and brought out a bottle of Tio Pepe.
Vivian's favorite drink. Melrose flinched.
"Reserves, one must always have reserves." He poured each of them a glassful. He had his smoke, his drink, and he sighed with relief. From what, Melrose wasn't sure. He hadn't been down the mines or at the mills all day. "You know why this village is glutted with tourists, don't you, Mr. Plant?"
"No, I don't. Seems off-season."
"My God, hasn't anyone told you about what happened at the inn down the way? About a mile. The Old Silent. Woman shot her husband and we know her." He was pleased as punch.
The Princess sighed. "I was about to tell him, Major. There's one more story you've beaten me to."
He feigned distress. "My dear Princess, I am sorry." Meaning he was one-up. As she was about to speak, he went on. "It's all very strange, and I cannot believe the woman is deranged, not to look at her face; and do you know she's been-"
"Been here," snapped the Princess, turning upon Melrose a self-congratulatory smile, having stolen the story right out of the Major's mouth.
"You know this woman, do you?"
With a little gesture of his hand, Major Poges graciously allowed the Princess to answer.
She sat forward on the chaise and leaned toward Melrose. "I can't say I know her well, but I do believe she's a friend of Ann Denholme. She didn't mention it? The entire village is aghast; the Citrine estate is only about two miles from here."
"Two and one-half," said the Major, uncorking the Tio Pepe again. "I walk about Keighley Moor nearly every day." He refilled his and Melrose's glasses; the Princess put her hand over hers and shook her head.
"Miss Denholme said nothing, no."
Major Poges turned to the Princess. "Well, I doubt she would, Rose. Don't you find her an altogether secretive woman?" To Melrose he said, "When I asked her where the marmalade had got to this morning, she reacted as if there were some subterfuge at work, some double-meaning, as if one of us was running spies-"
The Princess laughed and shook her head. "What hyperbole! He always talks like that. We cannot depend on anything you say, George."
He smiled sheepishly and raised his glass. "Can't help it. Life is so damned dull otherwise. But I expect you're right." The sheepish look suggested that he had no intention of stopping, however. "Only, you must admit Ann Denholme seems to see life as a locked box of secrets. Sexual, I hope." His mustache twitched.
"Hope away," said the Princess.
Given his brief talk with her earlier, Melrose would say that Major Poges's metaphor was right on the money. It accounted for the literal, rather steamy bodily presence of Ann Denholme, yet mental absence-the rather remote look, the look of a woman who was not really there.
The Princess leaned even farther forward, her eyes no longer milky-gray but glinting like steel shards. "What I understand from Ruby-she's the maid and stumbling server of our delectable meals-was that Mrs. Healey would bring her boy here to play with Abigail. That's Ann's niece."
But Abby couldn't have been more than three or four then, a strange playmate for a twelve-year-old boy. Still, given that it was the Fury, she was probably interesting even at two.
"A terrible tragedy, that. Mrs. Healey's son and a local boy from Haworth were kidnapped. I can't imagine you haven't read about it. It was in the Times
, after all," said the Major, thereby questioning Melrose's possible taste and wiping out every other newspaper on Fleet Street.
Before Melrose could extract any more local information, Ann Denholme stuck her head round the door and announced dinner. It was eight o'clock.
"Hell," said the Major sotto voce, shredding his cigar in the big ashtray. The Princess sighed. Both of them were just revving up for a wonderful gossip. Raising his voice he said, "Thank you, Miss Denholme. I was wondering, though, if we are all to be seated at the long table." The tone suggested they damned well better not be. "I cannot envision dining with Master Malcolm." He gulped down his drink.
"But you've taken tea with Abby, Major Poges."
He snorted, got sherry in his nose, and pulled out a huge handkerchief. "My God, madam, that is apples and oranges. Your niece is human-in a strange little way, granted-but the Braine boy is a swarm of wasps. He better hadn't land on my plate."
"It's a very long table, Major, as you know. They'll be sitting at the other-"
"Rubbish. I'm sure the boy keeps an air gun for just such occasions. Oh, very well, come along, Prin--" He stopped short and stared at the person coming through the door now, upon whom Ann Denholme bestowed a welcoming smile.
Since the person was in the process of removing a huge black helmet-cyclist? dare-devil stuntman? driver?-it was impossible to tell whether it was male or-
Female, definitely. An absolute mess of long hair the color of oats she shook out like a mane, dangling the helmet in her hand. She was dressed, or swathed, in black leather, collar to toe. She had apparently held up a hardware store, for she had so many metal chains round her neck and hammered metal earrings and bangles encircling her wrists she clattered through the room like Marley's ghost.
Ann Denholme introduced this young woman as Miss Ellen Taylor. The Major bowed, the Princess murmured, Melrose smiled. Miss Ellen Taylor was totally self-absorbed; she had a vague smile that she hung on various points in the air, never quite getting round to the three guests.
Major Poges bent over to put out his cigar and said, very low, to Melrose, "The Eagle has landed."
The Princess, her hand on the door, smiled at Miss Taylor and said, "I heard Dior was bringing back the bomber's jacket: that is afascinating ensemble."
Melrose declined the Major's request that he join them. He had to meet someone in Haworth.
And anyway, the curtain had just gone up on the next act.
15
Weavers Hall appeared to be a cabaret or theater in which the curtain rises in folds and cascades down. The sofa was a front-row seat; all he had to do was wait to be entertained as one act followed another. The trained seals should be along any moment now. He smiled.
Miss Taylor was too busy studying the bookshelves to see the smile. All of that black leather simulated, indeed, a seal-like hide. It was supple; it glimmered wetly; light caught in its pliable folds as she bent, rose, bent again to remove and replace various books.
In a dismissive tone, she said, "God, but someone here sure goes in for mysteries."
An American. But "heah shoe-ah"? He did not, however, have some stereotypical image in his mind of Americans as always dressed in black leather and riding motorcycles and having loud voices and hard accents-as Miss Taylor certainly did.
He put hers down to nervousness, for some reason he couldn't explain, as she threw herself down on the opposite end of the sofa, with some loud talk about the weather, the brittle air, the ice-patched road, the ruts that had nearly thrown her. The helmet she stashed on the floor and was wrenching her long hair about as if she meant to strangle herself with it; from a secret little pocket (the leather jacket had many) she drew some hairpins which now bristled from her mouth like thorns as she plucked them out and stuck them here and there to bunch her hair up and back. Around them she said loud, indecipherable things ("Chris-bu'thr'snurumin'lage"), while Melrose made umms and ohs in his throat. In the streak of light from the anglepoise lamp, he imagined the oriental carpet rippling, the floorboards tremoring slightly from the voice that was still loud despite the strictures imposed by the hairpins.
Ellen Taylor was extremely attractive, although she hadn't done much to enhance the qualities that made her so. The bountiful hair could use a good wash, the hands that fooled with it were oil-streaked and nail-bitten, and the only makeup she wore was on her eyes, with too much shadow, as if overdoing them made up for underdoing everything else. Her lashes were so heavily mascaraed they looked like tiny, dry twigs that hid rather than enhanced the dark brown eyes beneath.
What interested him even more was her ambivalence: her voice was raised as if she meant to separate herself from others; at the same time, when she could easily have chosen a half-dozen other places to sit, she had plopped herself down by Melrose.
Far from projecting her chosen image of Brash Young American, Melrose thought she was more a play of light and shadow. He wished, though, that she hadn't chosen shouting as her vocation…
Ah, but it wasn't, he discovered when he asked her if she was touring or just what?
"I'm researching my next book." Having bunged up her hair into a sort of large blossom, she scooped down on the sofa and pressed her head against its back. From a zipper pocket in the black leather jacket she pulled out a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and shook one out for Melrose, then one for herself. When her loops of linked metal necklace clanged and the hammered bronze earrings clapped, she sounded like someone on a chain gang.
"Book? You're a writer, then?"
She nodded, exhaling a bale of smoke that hung in the air between them as she turned her head to look at him from under lowered lids and lashes. "I am hot, very hot in New York ['New Yawk'] at the moment. And you know what it is to be hot in New York ['New Yawk']." Her face turned away from him as she inhaled deeply.
"As a matter of fact, no."
Her eyes widened as she turned her cheek against the sofa to give him a splendid, startled-doe look.
"Say again? Do you mean you've never been to New York? God, where else is there?"
"Well, speaking of God, there's Rome."
Her nose wrinkled. "Are you kidding? The pope's there."
"Last time I heard, yes. How about London?"
"Too provincial."
"Moscow?"
"Come on. Moscow's just a logo and a pose."
That took care of any future summit meeting, at least, so he changed the subject. "I don't believe I've read anything by an Ellen Taylor; but I'm not up on hot young New York writers." Quickly, he added, in case he had sounded offensive, "But that's no reflection on your hotness. I've just never got much further than Rimbaud."
She considered this. "He's not bad."
"I believe he was quite hot at the time."
"Wouldn't surprise me." Some more exhaled smoke fogged the air. "Anyway, Taylor isn't my writing name. It's Tamara."
" 'Ellen Tamara'? Hmm. Perhaps you've not been published in Britain?"
"Not Ellen, just Tamara. One name. Like Cher or Sting or Dante." She appeared to be searching the table for a clean glass, and seeing none chose the Princess's slightly smudged one, which she wiped out with a napkin.
Melrose stopped in the act of filling the glass she held out to him and considered. "You left out Michelangelo."
"When I was writing under my own name I couldn't sell a damned thing. Couldn't even if I wrote like Hemingway.
The which I resemble, incidentally." As she searched up an ashtray, the chains and bracelets clattered.
"Ernest? Or Mariel?"
Another lungful of smoke billowed out as she laughed.
"Very funny. Fortunately, I can take a joke. Fame hasn't altered me, nor 'custom staled my infinite variety.' Despite the celebrity, I'm still a humble person."
So then was Cleopatra, he did not say.
"No, once you get bitten by fame, you're ruined. My editor said, 'In your case it would take a rabid dog.'" She raised her glass as if toasting her editor. "He's
very supportive like that."
"He sounds brilliant."
She shrugged. "But he thinks I should go back to writing the way I did before."
"And how was that?"
"Not so experimental-straight narrative, more or less. Gothic type. A little like Brontë, a little le Fanu, a soupqon of James."
Melrose had just then taken a sip of sherry and choked. "HenryJames?"
Slapping him on the back, she said, "You okay?"
"No." His throat felt grainy, his voice rusty. "No. You'll have to do an emergency tracheotomy. Look, no one writes like Henry James now, and Lord knows no one used to write like Henry James, except Henry James. And how is it you manage to include him in your Gothics Unlimited list?"
She turned her head so sharply the metal earrings clinked against her face. "Say again? What about The Turn of the Screw?"
He had to admit that was a bit Gothic.
She studied her nails to see, apparently, if there was anything else to bite. "And there's Portrait of a Lady. You've read that, surely." Now she was chewing on a morsel of thumb.
"Of course."
"I rest my case."
"On what?" He started chewing on his own thumbnail. Was she mad?
"You must not've understood it," was her oblique answer.
It really was too much. Was this gritty, poorly spoken girl actually educated, knowledgeable, informed, and-surely not-talented?
She had checked the watch that was far too heavy for her bony wrist and was saying, "Well, got to vamoose. I thought maybe I'd have a meal in the village. Maybe at one of those hotels."
She rose quickly and jammed the black helmet over her head. With her small face peering out from the black dome, she looked a little like an astronaut who'd been hanging around so long she'd shriveled.
Melrose stood up. "I have to be going myself." He gathered up his coat and stick and followed her out the door.
The Old Silent Page 13