When the Spirit Is Willing

by Margaret Chittenden

  "I can look it up, if you help me read the names," Jessica whispered. "What are we going to do?"

  "You'll see." When Jessica brought the telephone book to her she studied the names until she came to Kincaid, Carter, then Jessica wrote down the number. "Tell Sly to come over here," Priscilla instructed. "Tell him not to bring Max. He might bark and Laura would know Sly was here. Tell him not to worry if he's followed. I have a plan."

  Together, they watched at the front door until Sly's taxi drew up, keeping their ears tuned to the upper story, where Laura was moving her stepladder around and running a roller over each sheet of wallpaper as she hung it. The roller squeaked, which made it easy to ensure she was still working.

  They ushered Sly into the den, then Jessica went back to watch through the side window. Sure enough, within a few minutes, a black car turned the corner and parked under a tree.

  "So all you really want to do is to persuade her you can't possibly marry her?" Priscilla was saying to Sly when Jessica returned to the den.

  Sly nodded.

  Priscilla looked at him through narrowed eyes. "As Jessica told you on the phone, I have a plan. But before I tell you what it is, I want you to promise me you'll tell Laura you lied about Carter being such a blackguard."

  "Deal," Sly said eagerly.

  "Here's my plan, then," Priscilla continued. "You call Dorothy in, then introduce me as your wife and Jessica as your daughter."

  Jessica giggled. "Uncle Sly's too old to have a daughter as little as me."

  Sly looked offended. Priscilla smiled. "You've a lot to learn about men, poppet," she said. "Uncle Sly's much more likely to father a child than I am to mother one." She touched Jessica's cheek lightly. "Could you remember to call him 'Daddy'?"

  "Sure," Jessica said. She giggled again. "This is fun, like a game on TV."

  Sly was looking doubtful. "You think Dorothy's going to believe someone as young and beautiful as you is my wife?" he asked Priscilla.

  Her face softened. She liked compliments a lot, Jessica had noticed. "Men your age marry women my age all the time," she said.

  "Well, not quite all the time," Sly protested. "And what about your clothes?"

  "I'll think of something," Priscilla said. "Now, go and get her—do. Laura will be coming down for coffee or to check on Jessica if you don't hurry up." She frowned at Jessica. "Perhaps you should go upstairs to your mother, poppet. Keep her from coming down for a while."

  "Oh, no," Jessica said firmly. "I don't want to miss this. Besides, I have to be the pretend daughter."

  Priscilla sighed. "So you do. All right. Go ahead, Sly."

  "I don't know," Sly muttered.

  "Do you have a better idea?" Priscilla asked.

  Sly's drooping shoulders indicated that he didn't. A minute later, he left the house, then returned, bringing a large, gray-haired lady in a wrinkled beige suit into the den.

  "Dorothy," he said, as soon as he'd closed the door. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Priscilla, and my daughter, Jessica."

  Dorothy sank into the nearest chair, which luckily was the largest in the room.

  Jessica took hold of Sly's hand and looked up at him fondly. "We're so glad to have Daddy back," she said.

  For a minute, Dorothy seemed too surprised to say anything at all. Managing a funny-sounding gasp, she gazed at Sly with big mournful eyes and said, "You're married? All this time, you've been married?"

  Sly hung his head. "I'm sorry, Dorothy. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you wouldn't respect me anymore."

  "But you let me think you were fond of me. I thought you wanted to marry me." Her eyes were swimming with tears. All of a sudden the game didn't seem as much fun to Jessica.

  Dorothy was staring at Priscilla now, appearing to notice for the first time the way she was dressed. She looked puzzled. Priscilla gave her a gentle smile. If it hadn't been her idea in the first place, Jessica would have thought Priscilla wasn't really enjoying the game, either.

  "I'm an actress," Priscilla said, with a little sigh. "I'm about to leave for dress rehearsal."

  "I see," Dorothy murmured, though she obviously didn't see at all. "Where's the other woman?" she asked abruptly, looking around. "A woman came out of this house and spoke to me yesterday. Who is she?"

  "The housekeeper, my dear," Sly said quickly. He was beginning to look as if he didn't like the game much, either. "I do intend paying back the money I owe you very soon," he assured Dorothy. "My nephew has offered to lend me the money. A Kincaid always pays his debts."

  "This was never about money," Dorothy said sadly. Pushing herself awkwardly to her feet, she nodded miserably at Priscilla, attempted a smile for Jessica and gave Sly a sad look that made Jessica's tummy feel funny. "I won't bother you anymore," Dorothy said.

  And then, just as Sly began to look relieved that the game was over and Priscilla looked as if she was going to say something to him, the den door opened and Laura popped her head into the room. "Jess, I thought you were—oh!"

  She came all the way into the room, her gaze going from Sly to Dorothy and back again.

  "Dorothy was just leaving," Sly said. "Perhaps you'd show her to the door, Laura."

  Not knowing she'd been elected housekeeper, she looked taken aback, but she managed a halfway decent smile and seemed about to do as Sly had asked.

  But then Sly said, "Just a minute, Dorothy." He shot a glance at Priscilla. "I can't do it," he said. "She and I were friends."

  "I hoped you wouldn't be able to," Priscilla said softly.

  This made Jessica feel as puzzled as Laura looked.

  Sly smiled sheepishly at Laura, then turned to face the other woman. "I'm not married, Dorothy. This lady here is Laura Daniel, the owner of the house. Jessica is her daughter. Priscilla is…" He stopped, then swallowed. "Her cousin."

  Dorothy didn't seem able to take the news in. "Priscilla isn't your wife? Jessica isn't your daughter?"

  Finally understanding what was going on, Laura flashed a furious glance at Sly. "You told Dorothy Jessica was yours?"

  "It was just a game, Mom," Jessica said.

  "A game! You involved my daughter in a game that was intended to deceive this poor woman."

  "I couldn't go through with it," Sly noted.

  Laura looked meaningfully at Priscilla. "I didn't think he'd be able to go through with it," Priscilla said. "I was counting on his good side coming through."

  Laura's stern glance fell on Jessica. "It made my tummy feel funny," Jessica confessed.

  "Good," Laura said.

  "You didn't have to lie to me," Dorothy said to Sly. Then she bit her lip. "Maybe you did, considering I wouldn't let go. I've been an ass, haven't I? Convincing myself you loved me, when all you ever wanted was a bridge partner." She shook her head. "I'm sorry you felt it necessary to lie to me."

  "I have a suggestion," Laura said, looking Sly right in the eye. "Why don't you take Dorothy downtown and buy her coffee or a late breakfast and explain to her that Kincaid men are cowards about women and they can't make a commitment to save themselves? It might help her feel better about herself."

  Sly winced, then nodded. "I do owe you a proper explanation," he said to Dorothy.

  She started toward the door, with Sly following.

  Then Priscilla said, "Aren't you forgetting something, Sly?"

  Sly turned around, looking like someone who had just been invited to step into the tumbril on its way to the guillotine. "I lied to you, too," he said to Laura. "All that stuff about Kincaid men…" He hesitated. "Well, okay, that was all true, but it was an exaggeration where Carter is concerned. Carter's parties were all business-related fundraisers, and there hasn't been a woman in his life since I got here, except for you. Carter has an eye for a woman, like the rest of the Kincaids, but he's always been restrained about it."

  "I worked most of that out for myself, Sly," Laura said. "But the part about Kincaid men being afraid of commitment still stands, unfortunately." She paused. "I'm glad you
decided to come clean, all the same." She glanced at Priscilla questioningly and Priscilla produced an innocent smile. "Even if you did confess under duress," Laura added.

  Sly gave another sheepish smile, then followed Dorothy out.

  "So now there are no obstacles in the way of true love," Priscilla said as soon as the front door closed. "You know now that Carter is an upstanding citizen. The serious-minded man you said you were looking for. There's no reason you can't—"

  "There are lots of reasons," Laura said, glancing at Jessica in a sad way that made Jessica's tummy feel funny again. "I'm no Dorothy, hanging around on street corners, hoping for a few crumbs of affection from a man just because he's acted friendly toward me. You heard Carter say, just as I did, that he's phobic about marriage. Well, I'm not going to waste my time with someone who's so afraid of a commitment that he has to take off on the first plane that's leaving town. If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon not hear his name mentioned in this house again."

  She stalked out of the room. A minute later Jessica beard her running up the staircase. She looked at Priscilla, her face crumpling. "Was my mom crying?" she asked.

  Priscilla's face seemed shadowed. "I'm very much afraid she was," she said.

  "Freeze," Mildred ordered.

  One hand on his office doorknob, Carter stiffened guiltily, then turned his head. "I can't stop now, Mildred. I have to call Laura. Then I'll help you uncrate those pictures."

  "It won't do," Mildred said flatly. "You've put me off with one excuse after another for long enough. I waited all morning for you. I know you have a lot going on next door and with Tiffany, but I'm fed up with stumbling over that crate every time I walk around my desk. I want it emptied now."

  Carter turned all the way around, ready to argue. But he was brought up short by the rigid stiffness of Mildred's figure, outlined against the light from the chandelier on the landing. She really meant it this time.

  "Okay," he said with a sigh, sounding to his own ears a lot like Jessica. He missed Jessica, he realized. But he had an idea he would not be welcome at The Willows unless he could come up with a good reason for going there.

  Together he and Mildred hauled the heavy crate into his office. He hunted out a crowbar, which reminded him of his first meeting with Laura. He was suddenly aware of the heavy aching that had come upon him the previous night and had not yet lifted. Carefully, he began prying out the wooden slats that separated the paintings. There were five paintings carefully wrapped in brown paper, all elaborately framed. Mildred crowed over each discovery.

  "Look," she shouted as they removed the wrappings from the fourth to disclose an attractive woman of fifty or so, wearing a voluminous dark dress. "It's Sarah Kellogg Ferry, Washington's first first lady." Almost reverently, she propped the painting against the wall and stood looking at it, her hands clasped over her chest.

  "Here comes the last one," Carter said as the final slat came loose.

  Mildred helped him lift the painting out and he carefully unwrapped it. Then it was his turn to be excited. "My God!" he exclaimed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "What on earth are you doing in that outfit?" Laura demanded the moment she opened her front door.

  Carter glanced down at his frock coat and waistcoat and admittedly baggy black pants, doffed his stovepipe hat and produced what he hoped was a winning smile. "There's a purpose behind it all, I assure you."

  She looked suspiciously at the wrapped painting he was holding. "That's not another gift for Jessica, I hope."

  He shook his head. "It's a surprise for Priscilla."

  "You've found something!"

  Her wonderful gray eyes shone. Just as he'd hoped, her excitement was about to overcome her reluctance to invite him in.

  "It's very heavy," he said to help things along.

  "Come in, come in," she said, still eyeing the package.

  Her eyes were slightly pink around the rims, he noticed as she stepped out of the shadow of the doorway. The sign of her distress tore at something deep inside him, yet gave him hope at the same time. Because if she was distressed, then she cared. And if she cared…

  "Abraham Lincoln," Jessica shouted as she came clattering down the stairs. "Where's your beard, Mr. Lincoln?" she asked as she flung herself at him.

  After putting his hat on the hall table and setting the painting carefully aside, he picked the little girl up and swung her around. "I didn't have time to grow it," he said.

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "I don't like beards, anyway," she told him.

  Laughing, he inhaled the wonderful little-girl smell of her—a cross between freshly picked apples and Ivory soap— then set her down and looked up to see Laura glancing at him wistfully.

  Wistful was good.

  "Where's Priscilla?" he asked, beginning to feel confident.

  "She's resting," Jessica said.

  "Good. We can have a look at this before we show it to her." Without waiting for another invitation, he led the way into the den, where he unwrapped the painting and set it against the coffee table.

  "It's Priscilla!" Jessica exclaimed, clapping her hands. Then she frowned. "Who's that hairy man with her?"

  "It has to be Randall Burbage, Priscilla's husband," Laura said. "My goodness, Carter, it's their wedding picture."

  Carter nodded.

  They all squatted on the floor to study the painting. "How could Priscilla ever call that man comely?" Laura asked after a while.

  "Most men had whiskers then," Carter said. "And standards were different."

  Priscilla looked beautiful, but stiff, Laura thought. Standing next to a small marble-topped table, dressed in masses of satin and tulle and orange blossom, she was clutching a spray of white roses. Her smile looked congealed.

  Randall Burbage, Laura remembered, was twelve years older than his twenty-year-old bride. So he would have been thirty-two. Now that she had studied him more carefully, she could see that he was good-looking, though his full beard did a good job of disguising the fact. Much taller than Priscilla, he stood on the other side of the table, leaning one hand on it. The other hand, clutching his top hat, was crooked against one hip. His dark hair was parted in the middle—a style of the times that Laura had never thought attractive. He was dressed in formal black with a white, wing-collared shirt and loosely knotted bow tie. Probably, she decided, the thing that had made her question Priscilla's description was that nothing in his demeanor or facial expression hinted at pleasure in the occasion.

  "That's an awful lot of space between them," she commented.

  "He looks bad tempered," Jessica said.

  Laura shushed her, suddenly worried that Priscilla might be able to hear them. "Priscilla loved him," she said.

  For a little longer, they all stared at the painting in silence. There really didn't seem to be anything to say. There was such a total lack of happiness in that painting that Laura felt a shiver go through her just looking at it. Depression seemed to settle over her like an inky cloud.

  "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all," Carter said, sounding as rattled as she felt. "Maybe we should just wrap it up again and put it back in the Jeep before—"

  It was too late. A swirl of fog had appeared in the closest chair. Laura watched nervously as Priscilla gradually materialized. As her body solidified, Laura saw that she was holding herself very stiffly and staring at the portrait. Her facial expression might have been carved out of stone—there was a look of such horror in her green eyes that Laura's blood seemed to freeze in her veins.

  "I thought—that is, I, uh, came upon this at the museum," Carter stammered. "I thought you'd be pleased to see it, Priscilla. That is your husband with you, isn't it?"

  "Yes. It was painted about a month after our wedding."

  Her voice was so low, Laura barely heard it.

  Clenching her hands, Priscilla pressed them against her eyes. "Take it away," she moaned. "I can't bear to look at him." H
er whole body was shuddering. Tears ran down her face from under her closed fists.

  Jessica ran to her and put her arms around her skirts. "Please don't cry, Priscilla."

  Obviously aware that Jessica was distressed, Priscilla pulled her hands away from her face and took a deep breath. Laura was getting used to her behaving like an ordinary human being, she realized. It didn't seem strange to see her breathing or crying anymore—though she certainly regretted the latter.

  She picked up the painting and laid it facedown on the floor. Priscilla smiled weakly at her, then asked Jessica to bring her a tissue from the bathroom.

  As Jessica ran off, Priscilla looked apologetically at Laura. "I'm sorry I lost control. It was just…" She glanced over her shoulder. "Could you send Jessica to play next door? I owe you an explanation, but I can't give it in front of…"

  Jessica was back. Hesitating, she looked at the box of tissues, then at Priscilla, as though she wasn't sure a ghost could use a tissue. Laura nodded at her when she glanced her way and she handed the box to Priscilla, who immediately proved she could use it—she blew her nose quite noisily several times, then mopped her face and sat looking so disconsolate, Laura wanted to hug her. Even the feathers on her hat were drooping.

  Pulling Jessica close to her knee, Priscilla talked airily about how silly she had been to let that old picture upset her. It was all a long time ago and of course she wasn't unhappy—it had just brought back a lot of old memories.

  When Jessica seemed convinced Priscilla was truly recovered, Laura suggested Priscilla might like to rest for a little while. Once Priscilla had gratefully faded away, Laura waited a little longer, talking to Carter about the other paintings he'd found in the crate Mildred had been nagging him about, until finally Jessica became restless and obviously bored.

  "Would you like to go play with Michelle?" Laura asked finally. "Carter and I have some business to discuss—it might be dull for you."

  Jessica hopped off the sofa with alacrity, requiring no further persuasion.