by Jane Toombs
As she fixed the evaporated milk formula, it occurred to her that he may never have held Johanna before. What kind of a father wouldn't cuddle his motherless baby? Why did Irma refuse to take Johanna? What was wrong with these people? Vera rinsed the bottles with boiling water and filled four of them. Putting three in the refrigerator, she carried the other to where John Gregory sat at the kitchen table with Johanna in his arms. The baby no longer cried, staring instead into her father's grim face. He didn't look at her. Irma Hattes had disappeared.
"Would you like to feed Johanna?" Vera asked him.
He shook his head so she picked the baby off his lap and he stood up. "I hired you to take full charge of this child," he said coldly. "Please don't involve me in her care again."
"But she--Johanna's your daughter," Vera sputtered.
He said nothing for long moments and when he spoke his voice was as hard and bleak as granite. "Is she?"
John Gregory strode from the kitchen, leaving Vera staring after him, shocked by what he'd implied about Johanna. A flicker of motion caught her eyes and she turned her head to see Irma peeking around the pantry door.
"Is he gone?"
Vera nodded.
"I didn't get a chance to tell you how things are." As she spoke the stout woman came out of the pantry and walked to the table where she sat in one of the chairs. Vera sat down, too and began feeding the baby.
"What's the matter with everyone?" she asked. "Why didn't you want to hold Johanna? She's in shocking condition. Who's been taking care of her?"
"There was a nurse, but the missus didn't take to her and she had to leave. That was before..." Irma's voice trailed off and she shook her head. "He won't have nothing to do with the child," she went on. "I'm not like some of the ninnies around this place, but to tell the truth I don't like to touch that baby, not at all."
"Not touch her? That's--" Vera paused before "ridiculous" slipped out. No point in antagonizing Irma. "I don't understand what you mean," she finished.
"There's something unnatural about Johanna." Irma pursed her mouth. "She's not right."
"Are you telling me she's mentally retarded?" Vera gazed down at the baby.
Johanna's eyes were half-closed as she sucked on the nipple. Again Vera was struck by her unattractiveness and tightened her arms around the baby. I'll take care of you, she vowed silently, you'll be my little sweetheart.
"That's not what I meant, not at all." Irma's tone hinted at secrets she alone knew. "You'll find out soon enough since you're to be her nurse."
"Why can't you say right out what you mean?"
"We all promised Mr. John we wouldn't talk about what went on behind the black door." Irma's face assumed a consciously virtuous expression. "I get paid good money cooking here. Times are hard in Tulare and I'm not going back there to starve."
Vera put Johanna against her shoulder and rose. "Thank you for finding me the milk." She knew her voice was cool, but she couldn't force herself to act more friendly. "If you do the grocery ordering I'd appreciate it if you'd get in a case of evaporated milk so we'll have enough on hand for me to make up bottles daily. I'll need oranges for juice, too."
"We grow our own oranges."
"Good. Do you have a Foley food mill so I can puree meat and vegetables for her?"
"There's a lot of grinders." Irma looked squarely at Vera. "I wouldn't mind doing the pureeing when I have time."
Vera recognized the olive branch. "That's nice of you." She managed a smile as she picked up the half-finished bottle and left the kitchen with Johanna.
Upstairs, she sat in the nursery rocking chair with the sleeping baby in her arms. Though Johanna's room also had dark wainscoting, wallpaper with sprightly Mother Goose characters covered the walls above it. The vivid blue curtains looked as new as the wallpaper, showing that someone had cared enough to brighten up the baby's room. Her dead mother?
What had happened to Johanna's mother? "A tragic accident," was how Sister Mathilde had put it.
"The deputy said he'd never seen so much blood and only one dead," the man in the depot had said.
Now Irma's, "We promised Mr. John we wouldn't talk about what went on behind the black door."
Vera didn't like the sound of it, not at all. She wasn't Johanna's first nurse, there'd been one before her, a nurse Johanna's mother had gotten rid of. Since her mother's death, though, no one in Hallow House had taken over the care of Johanna. The baby’s little bottom was a mass of blisters from being left in dirty diapers for long periods and Vera suspected she'd sometimes gone hungry. Johanna wasn’t ill, but she’d definitely been neglected. Why?
The baby didn’t have the unfocused, vacant stare of retardation--her big gray eyes were alert, evidence that intelligence lay behind them. She hadn’t smiled yet, but the poor little thing hadn’t had much reason to. It was almost beyond belief that people could ignore a helpless baby’s needs.
The evaporated milk formula and pureed food should fatten her up, as frequent bathing and clean diapers would soon clear up her rash. In the meantime, zinc oxide ointment would protect the sore bottom. And I’m here to provide the love, Vera told herself as she laid Johanna in her crib.
She looked through the baby's belongings for the ointment--which she soon found. There were also clean vests, diapers, gowns, stockings, intricately embroidered dresses, knitted sweaters, bonnets and booties, many obviously never worn.
There were stacks of cotton blankets, wool soakers, bibs, rattles, a rag doll, a stuffed dog. All new. More clothes and equipment than Johanna really needed. Yet the baby hadn't been well cared for. Vera couldn't understand how anyone could neglect an infant--especially in a well-to-do house like this one. The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew.
There were three female servants in this house, a teen-aged girl, an older great-aunt and at least one other female, assuming the dead woman's cousin was a woman. Six women and one girl, yet not one of them could manage to take care of Johanna adequately. Someone had kept the baby alive, she'd obviously been fed and changed part of the time. Why not all the time?
She meant to find out. Now.
With Delores Gregory dead, who'd be mistress of the house? Most likely the great-aunt. She'd start there. Vera peered out into the corridor. All the other doors were closed and the electric fixtures along the walls gave inadequate light.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn't eaten since lunch. Glancing at her watch she saw it was nearly seven. What time was dinner served? Or was the main meal at noon, with a late supper?
Where was everyone? Besides the females she'd counted, there were five men in the house--Vincent and John Gregory, Mr. Aarons, Samara's brother and Jose. At least eleven people somewhere in this silent house. Would one of them come and let her know when the meal was served? Perhaps she wasn't to eat with the family--nurses didn't always. She should have asked Irma while she had the chance.
The best solution was to go back down and find Irma now. At least she knew where the cook would be.
Vera stepped into the hall just as the door opposite hers opened. The woman who confronted her appeared to be in her thirties, tall, slim and wearing lounging pajamas. The pants had voluminous bottoms that made them almost skirt-like and the clinging silk fabric flowed down the lines of the woman's body in what Vera felt was almost an indecent manner. Could she be going to dinner wearing what was more appropriate for her own bedroom?
"You must be the nurse." The woman's voice was low and she spoke as though each syllable was an effort.
"Yes, I'm Vera Morgan."
"I'm Marie Naughton--dear Delores was my cousin. For her sake I did what I could for her poor child." Marie waved a hand toward the nursery. "Such a relief when John came to his senses at last and sent for a nurse. Babies are just not my forte and, besides, Johanna is so unattractive. I really do believe she must be defective. A pity." Marie touched her blond waves.
She probably bleaches it, Vera thought, and was immediately ashamed o
f her dislike of a person she'd barely met. But Johanna wasn't defective and this woman hadn't done nearly enough for the baby, no matter what she claimed.
"Will I be having meals with the family?" she asked Marie.
"Why I hadn't given it a thought." She examined Vera, who'd taken off her suit jacket and wore a white blouse with the skirt. "That other wretched creature Delores dismissed ate with us so I suppose you'll join us in the dining room, too. Why don't you come downstairs and we'll ask John?"
"Perhaps his great-aunt would know."
"Aunt Adele? Oh, she rarely comes out of her suite for meals--or much else. She and Theola huddle in those dreary rooms like two old witches in their secret hovel."
"I wouldn't mind eating in the kitchen," Vera said, mentally adding one more woman, Theola, to her list of those in the house.
Marie shook her head and beckoned for Vera to follow her. When they reached the dining room, Vera saw five people seated around a long table, already eating. The table had room enough to sit more than twice that many.
"I'm late as usual," Marie offered by way of greeting. "And I've brought our nurse with me, John. Where shall we put her?"
Vera, glancing around the table, saw there was only one extra setting--for Marie, obviously. Not wanting to cause any trouble, she said, "I'll go into the kitchen."
Marie caught her arm. "John, you can't expect her to eat with the servants."
Since Blanche was in the dining room serving, Vera's embarrassment intensified. "I really don't mind," she said.
"My mistake, for not thinking," John put in, rising. "Naturally Miss Morgan will dine with us. Blanche, please bring another place setting."
It was obvious to Vera that John hadn't thought about her eating at all, much less where.
Vincent rose, too, and came around the table, unsteady on his feet. "Allow me to escort the lady to her chair," he said.
She shot him a quick disapproving glance, but sat in the chair he pulled out for her, next to Stanley Aarons. There was no one on her other side. She noticed that John had seated Marie across from her.
"Do you know everyone?" Vincent asked.
"Except for the boy next to Samara, yes, I do," Vera said. "I know he must be Samara's twin but we haven't met."
"Allow me to present Master Sergei Gregory," Vincent said before weaving his way back to his seat.
The boy smiled at her, a charming smile that lightened his dark face. Beside him Samara ducked her head until hair hid her face.
Mr. Aarons nodded a greeting.
Blanche put dishes and silverware in front of Vera and everyone resumed eating. The food was on the table and passed along family style. Though there was plenty for all, Vera found the food uninspiring and the silent company intimidating.
I've cooked better roast beef that this, she thought. One of the courses offered at St. Bianca, her boarding school, had been in home economics and she'd learned as much as she could, thinking she'd be going home to keep house for her father when she was eighteen. And so she had. For a year. Then he'd died and she'd found she had no home and no money. If Sister Mathilde hadn't come to her rescue...
Enough. No good came of dwelling on the past. Since no one was talking, she looked about as she ate, trying not to be obvious as she examined the dining room. A brass and crystal chandelier hung over the table which looked as though it could seat a minimum of twelve. A carved walnut buffet with a matching side boy and server stood against one wall and a massive china closet loomed at the end of the room.
Glass and gold metal serving carts on wheels stood near the table. There were no paintings on the walls; gilded plaster ornamentation extended down from the ceiling in the form of flowers and birds. Deep red velvet draperies shut out the night.
"How do you like Hallow House?" Vincent asked her, finally breaking the somber silence.
"I haven't had time to become very acquainted with it yet," she parried.
"Are you a stranger to the area?" Stanley Aarons asked.
"I've been as far south as Los Angeles, but otherwise I've never been out of the Bay Area before."
"You'll find this different from San Francisco," Mr. Aarons said. "Quite different."
"Oh, it's different, all right," Vincent said. "Too damn different. You'll be lucky, Miss Morgan, if you never discover just how different Hallow House can be."
John caught Vincent's eye and shook his head, scowling. Vincent stood up abruptly, flung his napkin onto the table and stalked from the dining room. John looked after him and, when he turned back, his gaze crossed Vera's and held for a moment. The pain in his deep brown eyes stabbed at her heart.
He was the most attractive man she'd ever seen and his face held a brooding intensity that both intrigued and frightened her. She found herself wishing she knew how to comfort him, at the thought, she blushed and looked away.
"Is the child all right?" he asked.
"Johanna was sleeping when I came downstairs," Vera said. She gazed at the food on her plate, knowing she couldn't eat another bite; her appetite had fled. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to her."
"If you think it's necessary," John said. "I'm sorry I neglected to tell you about meals here. Breakfast is at eight, lunch is served at one and dinner at seven."
Vera looked at him, aware her cheeks were still flushed. His eyes held a glint of amusement--and of something else that made her heart begin to pound.
"Thank you," she managed to say as she rose and fled up the stairs to her room.
Whatever had possessed her to indulge in such personal feeling about John Gregory? It would never do to become overly friendly with her employer, a man who'd just lost his wife, besides. She wondered if anyone would ever tell her how Delores Gregory had died.
Did it have anything to do with what was behind the black door?
Chapter 10
In the nursery, the baby lay on her stomach sound asleep so Vera began to unpack. The odor of rose sachet drifted from the bureau drawers as she opened them to place her clothes inside. The closet was tiny but adequate for her small wardrobe. A hesitant knock made her turn toward her closed door.
"Come in."
The door opened and Samara slipped inside. "Is Johanna all right?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes, she's sleeping." Vera looked closely at the girl, who seemed to be the only one in the house truly interested in Johanna's welfare. On a hunch, she said, "Have you been taking care of your little sister?"
"When I could." Samara's voice was nearly a whisper.
"I tried to feed her and change her but I couldn't always. I did try. She's so tiny and helpless and I was afraid something would happen to her. But now you're here. You'll take care of her and she'll be fine. Won't she?"
"I think so. Didn't anyone help you with Johanna? Cousin Marie? The servants?"
Samara shook her head. "I never saw anyone. Just me. And I couldn't always come. So I--I finally went to Daddy." She glanced around as though afraid of being overheard. "Please don't tell anyone."
"Not if you'd rather I didn't."
Samara smiled at her timidly before scooting out the door.
Don't tell anyone that Samara had quite possibly saved her sister's life? The girl actually seemed terrified someone would find out not only about that but also the fact she was indirectly responsible for bringing Vera here.
Another knock on the door brought in Samara's twin, Sergei. He was already nearly as tall as his father, with short curly dark hair like his sister's. A handsome boy. "The kid all right?" he asked.
"Johanna? Yes."
"Good. If you'd like me to show you around tomorrow I'd be happy to. Just let me know when you have time."
"How nice of you--I'll take you up on it."
Sergei flashed his radiant smile at her and ambled off. Were the twins the only two who cared what happened to Johanna?
I was hired by Johanna's father, Vera thought. That is, if he is her father. Still John had found someone to assume care for th
e baby, father or not, though it seemed Samara had prodded him into taking action. Had he hoped the child would die?
Vera shook her head, unable to believe that of him. She stopped in the act of folding a white cotton nightgown into a drawer, remembering how he'd looked at her at the table. After a moment she shook her head and resumed putting her clothes away.
Once she'd finished straightening her bedroom, she went down to the kitchen for a bottle of formula for Johanna, who’d be waking up hungry soon. Irma and Geneva were cleaning up, otherwise she saw no one. Coming up the stairs she heard Johanna's thin, keening wail and hurried toward the nursery. As she reached the open door, a small hunched figure darted out of the room.
"What are doing?" Vera cried.
The old woman mumbled something and scuttled past her. Vera rushed into the nursery. Johanna was on her back screaming, her face red, her body tense. Vera picked her up, cuddling her close, and spoke soothingly, but it was some time before the baby quieted.
As Vera eased her away to return her to the crib so she could change her, she gasped. There was blood on Johanna's forehead! After a moment she grabbed a cloth and dabbed at the four shallow scratches near the baby's hairline. How could such a thing have happened?
She hadn't seen a cat in the house. Besides, accounts of cats harming babies were greatly exaggerated. Looking closer, she noticed the mark formed a crude number four. Vera's skin crawled. The very idea that someone would deliberately scratch Johanna horrified her.
Yet, when a thorough search of the crib turned up nothing that the baby could have accidentally scratched herself on, there was no other answer.
A person who'd attack a baby would have to be insane. Was the old woman she'd seen coming out of the nursery guilty of this atrocity?
"Old witches," Marie had called Aunt Adele and Theola. One of them had to be the person she'd seen.
Something must be done immediately!
She changed Johanna and wrapped her in a blanket. The scratches had stopped bleeding and had begun to crust over, making the number four even more obvious.