“Well, well. What have we here?”
“Lionel, you remember Mr. Dahl.”
I stood at once to shake his hand, and was glad that this time he did not evaluate me with the surly suspicion with which he had on the night we met at the museum. I noted once again how his languid curls hung down one side of his face, the burn mark yet a liver colored scar beneath them. But as he did not stare or comment on my leg, I too did my best to ignore the blight.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Lionel Balfour.” We shook hands. “We met under pleasurable circumstances, I trust?”
“We did indeed.”
“Mr. Dahl was at the preview of father’s paintings.”
“Of course. I’m afraid I don’t remember much of that night. Laura wouldn’t let me touch liquor for a week after that one.”
“With pleasant results, I might add,” said Laura.
“Speaking of which,” Balfour went to the sideboard, “would you care to join me?”
I respectfully declined.
“Suit yourself,” he said and unstopped a bottle and poured a clear liquid which could only be his preference, gin as I recalled, and drank a mouthful without hesitation.
Dinner was announced before he could indulge too much, and we were ushered into a lavish dining room and seated to a delicious soup and a main course of roasted duck. I was not at all surprised that Princess came into the room with us, and again took a seat on a chair beside Laura.
The conversation remained formal and polite, consisting mostly of Balfour and I getting to know one another which I suppose was a necessary hurdle if I was to win his permission to court his sister. I was in unexplored territory and did not know the etiquette of such matters, but instinct took over and I followed where it led. I was not surprised to learn that he did nothing. He did not work, was involved in no charities, and had no outside interests other than the horses and the gaming parlors, meeting with his mates for billiards, and drinking to excess. I suspected he indulged his taste in women as well. The family coffers must indeed be a bottomless till.
We had only just finished the meal when there was a disturbance in the hall. One of the voices I recognized as that of the butler who had admitted me. The other was gruffer, more forceful. Though the words were unintelligible it was clear that Soames did his best to protest the other man’s presence. A cloud crossed Laura’s face. Lionel’s reaction, however, was much more visceral. I saw his knuckles tighten around the napkin in his fist as a veil of crimson quickly colored his face. The dog, which had heretofore been remarkably well behaved, began to bark without end.
The men’s voices grew louder as they rushed down the hall toward the dining room. Balfour was on his feet at once.
“Where is she?” the stranger’s voice sounded in the doorway behind me. I turned to inspect the uninvited guest. He was dark, with black hair and thick black brows over equally black eyes which burned with some unknown fury.
“How dare you come here like this?”
“Where are you hiding her?”
“She’s not here,” Balfour said dismissively.
The dog continued to bark and leapt onto Laura’s lap.
The stranger looked at Laura, and for a moment I detected a threat of danger. Balfour made no motion to move toward the stranger. The tension between the two men was palpable. Laura clutched a hand to her throat.
“Where is she, then? I haven’t seen her for weeks. I go to her flat and am told she isn’t in. She won’t return my calls or letters.”
“I’ve told you before I am not my sister’s keeper.”
“You know where she is.”
“I do not.”
The stranger turned on Laura. “What about you?”
Laura shrank back as though the man had leapt toward her.
“Leave her out of this, Noyes.”
Now the man called Noyes looked at me, as if I should have an answer for him. What was going on here?
“If you see Lydia—”
“—I don’t expect to.”
“—if you see her, tell her I want my money. Tell her I will find her. Tell her—”
“I’ll tell her nothing,” said Lionel. “Now leave this house at once. Or do I have to have you thrown out?
The two men faced each other for a moment, at impasse. Noyes turned. His footsteps resounded in the hall. The front door slammed.
“Clive,” said Laura, “I truly beg your pardon for this unforgivable outburst.”
“It was nothing,” I assured her.
Balfour remained standing. The poor man was shaking. His hand was unsteady as he lifted his wineglass and drained its contents.
“Who does he think he is, bursting in on us like this?” Balfour addressed no one in particular.
It was none of my business, but I was compelled to ask. “Who is he?”
A vein throbbed in Balfour’s cheek. He reached unsteadily for the decanter of wine.
“Stuart Noyes,” said Laura.
“Laura, don’t.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“He is – Lydia’s fiancé.”
The dog had settled down at last. Laura stroked its luxurious white hair, but it did little to soothe her. An unpleasant silence hung about the table.
I should have held my tongue, but I said, “Who is Lydia?”
Balfour warned his sister again. Laura ignored him.
“She is our sister.”
Part Two
The room seemed to grow darker. Perhaps it was a fault in the electric lights. Perhaps it was a momentary dizziness which took hold of me. Balfour drained another glass of wine and refilled again. Laura’s eyes seemed to glaze over and she appeared to have shrunk inside of herself. I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Lionel—” she began, but her words would go no further.
Balfour shouted, “Soames!” and the butler appeared in the room. “Call my sister’s maid. I believe my sister wishes to retire.”
Laura rose, forgetting the dog was in her lap, spilling it onto the floor where it landed with a yelp. I believed she was about to faint and I stood instinctively as she collapsed, but Lionel was the closer, and despite his inebriation, more agile. He and Soames supported her between them and before I could offer any words of comfort or say good-night to Laura they whisked her from the room, leaving me to sit there in bewildered silence.
I sat there for some time, perplexed, until it became evident that neither Laura nor Lionel would return. The whole thing smelled rotten. Who was this man Noyes? Moreover, who was Lydia, and why hadn’t Laura mentioned her before? From what little knowledge I had of the family there were only Laura and Lionel. No other siblings. And in that moment I realized, no matter how much I felt a kindred bond with Laura, there was very little I knew about her at all. She was beautiful, and kind, and understanding, and I was clearly in love with her. But if I was to pursue a romantic course with her, I had to accept the family, Lionel, and now Lydia, and whatever other secrets they had in store for me.
Ten, perhaps twenty minutes crept by, and just when I decided I had best show myself out, one of the servants stepped into the room and was startled by my presence.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I had no idea there was anyone still in the room. Will you be joining Mr. Balfour for cigars?”
I suppressed a laugh at the irony of his question. “No. I shall just be going home, then. Would you be so kind as to call me a cab?”
“Of course, sir,” he said and stepped from the room, leaving me once again to my own devices.
I showed myself out of the room, and as I had been whisked from the drawing room directly into the dining room, I had taken little note of the long hall which led to the front of the house, nor any of the adjoining rooms.
In the foyer, at the foot of the staircase, was a portrait of Laura. She might have been twelve or thirteen, and in it the beauty which I knew today was just beginning to emerge. There was a parlor opposite the draw
ing room, and by the dim glow of the electric lights ensconced on either side of it hung yet another portrait. Here, she was only a few years younger than she was now, but in this one, her eyes were somehow different. Yes they were the same pale blue and they were bathed in a warm, orange light that was surely some fireplace reflected on her face, yet they possessed a wholly different quality than the portrait by the stairs, and the one I had seen at the museum.
In that moment, two things crossed my mind.
One, was that I found it curious that, while everywhere I turned I saw paintings of Laura, including the one of her and her brother, why was it then that I saw no portraits of this sister, this Lydia?
The second thought struck me like a thunderbolt. Did Laura have a twin? Was it possible that the woman who now eyed me from this painting above the fireplace was not Laura, but a physical replica? Was it Lydia?
I left the house on Crescent Walk feeling miserable and dejected. I expected that Laura might try to contact me, and within a few days time her letter was in my hands. She was profusely apologetic about the abrupt end to an otherwise enjoyable evening. She made reference to a lingering headache which debilitated her for the rest of the night, but said not a word about Stuart Noyes, or Lydia. My spirits were raised, however, by the invitation to join her for tea the following Saturday afternoon, and I responded immediately that nothing would make me happier.
On Saturday I was greeted at the door by Soames who wore a perplexed expression on his face.
“She is not here, sir.”
“Where is she?”
“I do not know. Gone out.”
“I was invited to tea.”
“I see. I’m sure she may have been unnecessarily detained, wherever she may be. Would you care to wait?”
I said that I would and was ushered into the drawing room. Lionel Balfour’s distrusting eye watched me from the painting, and I found myself hoping that he would be away that afternoon. I didn’t mind his intent to chaperone. Indeed I fully understood the need and expected there should be one. I suppose I could relate, somewhat, to an older brother being protective of his younger sister’s well being, especially with Laura’s blindness, but it seemed to me that his protection might be overzealous and perhaps not entirely healthy.
When I was led into the drawing room, I remained standing, fully expecting that Laura would return at any moment, breathless with apologizes. I could hear the occasional sound of automobiles and horse hooves coming from the otherwise quiet street, but they always came and went. None stopped at the curb outside.
I had just resigned myself that perhaps I had the date confused, or that Laura had simply forgotten, when I was aware of a motorcar come roaring to a halt outside. Footsteps sounded on the steps. The door burst open.
And there was Laura, magnificent in a saffron dress with mutton sleeves and an elaborate hat tilted jauntily on one side of her head. She passed by the doorway to the drawing room, and then she took a step back and stood in the doorway. She looked at me, yes, she looked right into my eyes and a smile burst across her face.
“Hello,” she said. “What are you doing all by yourself in there?”
“Laura?” I said, though I knew it couldn’t be.
She threw her head back and laughed. It was Laura’s laugh, all right, and she looked exactly like Laura. But this dress – somehow I didn’t think Laura would wear something this extravagant, and of course her movements were bold and self-assured.
It wasn’t until much later that I remembered the dog, Laura’s dog, had begun to bark, locked away in a room upstairs somewhere. I suppose I heard the sound peripherally, but at the time the noise held no resonance for me
“You think I’m Laura. Should I be flattered or insulted? I’m sure she’s told you all about me.” She rolled her eyes. She smirked. She sashayed toward me plucking her glove from her hand and extended it toward me. A cloud of perfume hovered about her, a powerful fragrance, strong and beguiling but not in the least bit unpleasant. To the contrary, I felt electrified in her presence, and to my memory I recalled that Laura wore no noticeable perfume.
“I am Lydia,” she said.
Of course she was. Gentleman that I am, I was on my feet in a moment and delicately pressed my lips to the back of her gloved hand.
“I am Clive Dahl.”
“And Laura has told me simply nothing about you, the little minx. So Laura has a suitor. Well, good for her. I’m surprised Lionel let you anywhere near her. He would keep our dear sister under lock and key if he could. Is something wrong with your leg, or do you just carry that thing around with you for show?”
“It’s an old war injury.”
“You’re not old enough for it to be ‘old.’ Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is there a scar? Come now, don’t feign embarrassment. You’ve never had a woman interested in body? What a sheltered life you must lead.”
“Have you seen Laura? I was invited to tea. She apparently forgot about our appointment.”
“That’s unlike her, isn’t it? Have I seen her? Let’s see,” she tapped her fingers against her lips and eyed the ceiling. “No, I don’t believe I have. And she hasn’t seen me either, I guarantee that.” She laughed at the cruel joke. “What fun! I’ve never known a man to be interested in Laura. I mean, she’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? You’d better agree since she looks just like me! But she is such a priss. I bet you’ve never so much as kissed her.”
“We’ve only just met,” I protested.
“You’ve only just met me. Would you kiss me? Would you want to kiss me? You don’t want to answer, do you? Are you going to pretend to be shocked by my audacity? Didn’t they tell you about me? No, I suppose they didn’t. I’m not exactly the favored subject.”
“Perhaps I should go.”
“Nonsense, you just got here.”
“Actually—”
“You came for tea, then tea we shall have.” She stood to ring the bell to summon the servants.
“Please, don’t bother on my account.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, and sitting down she pulled a tiny, ornamental box from her bag. “Tell me, what do you take for the pain in your leg?”
I shrugged. “Morphine, but the chemist keeps me on a tight ration, lest I should develop an addiction. I always manage to use my ration too quickly.”
“Of course you do.” She produced a strange silver object, like an ornate fingernail, and fitted it on the tip of her smallest finger. “Poor thing,” she said and opened the tiny box and withdrew a bit of white powder with the scoop on the end of her finger. She gave me a wicked grin, then lifted the finger to her nostril and with a deep, well practiced snort, whisked the powder up inside.
I knew what it was, of course. Drugs are no stranger on the battlefield. I eyed the doorway nervously, supposing that Soames, or Lionel, or Laura might appear at any moment. Lydia gestured to me with the finger device. I was surprised to find that a thin sheen of sweat had broken out across my forehead and my collar felt tight. I shifted from my chair to the one next to hers.
“That’s a good lad,” she said. She tipped the finger scoop into the box and held it out, brimming with cocaine, for me to sniff. Though I had never partaken of this particular drug, I knew what to do. I closed one nostril with my finger and snorted the powder deep into the other. I felt a delightful tickle in the back of my throat. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She helped herself again, and then offered another scoop to me which I willingly accepted.
“Now then, what shall we do next? Would you like to go for a ride? I have a motorcar just outside.”
“I really should be going.” The drug was already beginning to take effect, and I couldn’t imagine going anywhere at the moment.
“Nonsense, the party is just beginning. I’ll let you drive.”
“I don’t know how to operate a motorcar.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“I don’t th
ink I would be a good pupil…under the circumstances.”
“You are a stick in the mud, aren’t you? Where’s your sense of adventure? At least let me drive you home.” I wasn’t certain that she would be able to drive either, but she didn’t strike me as a fiend. Perhaps the drug to her was nothing more than a few tots of whiskey were to some men. Though fascinated by Lydia, I wasn’t entirely comfortable being in the house alone with her, and now that I was beginning to fly, Laura and Lionel were the last people I wanted to face.
Black Valentines Page 3