Poinciana

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Welcome to Poinciana, darling,” he said. “I want you to be happy here. I had always hoped that Ysobel would visit this house someday, but there never seemed to be time in her busy life. So I’m glad her daughter has come to us.”

  It was a strange welcome, and I could have wished that the emphasis had been less on my mother. Nevertheless, I turned to him eagerly, relieved by this thawing of a remoteness that had seemed to shut him away from me.

  Albert drew the Rolls up before an arched entrance, the huge, carved front door set well back for weather protection—an impressive door of heavy Florida cypress, with brass ornamentation. It opened as we mounted the few steps, and I knew that my life at Poinciana was about to begin.

  Chapter 2

  A woman stood framed in the open doorway. She was tall and rather heavily built, and wore a trim gray skirt topped by a white blouse. Her hair was even blonder than my own and had been coiffed into a complex of coils pinned neatly and securely on top of her head.

  This, of course, was Mrs. Broderick. Helga Broderick, who had come here from Norway as a young girl in Allegra’s day, later marrying an American, Tom Broderick. Tom had once been in charge of everything outside the house, but he had died a few years ago, and Mrs. Broderick was a widow. All this I knew from Ross’s previous briefing. He had also warned me that she was never to be considered a servant, even if I’d been likely to use that term. She was an administrator, and one spoke of the “staff” in referring to employees. Allegra Logan had been nothing if not democratic, for all that she lived like an aristocrat.

  Ross shook hands with Mrs. Broderick warmly and introduced me.

  “Welcome to Poinciana, Mrs. Logan,” Mrs. Broderick said, but her handclasp offered no warmth and her pale blue eyes dismissed me quickly. Obviously I wasn’t up to exclusive Palm Beach standards, and for a moment I felt subtly diminished. I could never live up to Allegra’s measurements, I was sure, but something in me stiffened. I mustn’t think like that. Perhaps Mrs. Broderick would need to live up to mine.

  “Mr. Nichols will be right down,” she said to Ross, stepping back from the doorway. “He is with Miss Gretchen. There has been an unfortunate accident—though nothing serious.”

  “Albert told me,” Ross said. “I’ll go up at once. I want to know what happened.”

  Mrs. Broderick bowed her head in compliance, “Miss Gretchen—that is, Mrs. Karl—and her husband have moved into the south wing,” she added.

  Ross nodded, his mouth tightening, and motioned me in ahead of him. Albert had already vanished around to the rear with an armload of bags. I stepped into the entry hall and forgot everything else as its stunning impact struck me.

  It was an utterly beautiful and formal room done entirely in red and white, and not as large as might have been expected in such a house.

  The walls were covered with tapestried silk the color of Chinese lacquer, the square of floor was white marble, lightly veined, and a suspended white stairway rose on the left, carried upward by wrought-iron balusters and rail. The lacy iron curved across the back of the hall at half-level, without visible support, and then turned toward the front, the treads vanishing as they reached the upper floor. The underside of the stairs gleamed white as they performed their act of magical balance.

  Straight ahead at the half-level, white columns framed the red of a wall that held portraits, except for one conspicuously blank in the center. Beneath the floating stairs, more columns framed a door at the back, guarded on each side by marble busts on tall pedestals. Where the stairs began, a pot of Sèvres porcelain held a glowing rhododendron.

  I must have been standing open-mouthed, for Ross put an arm about me, laughing. “Allegra used to watch for just that reaction the first time any guest stepped into her house. That stairway is still famous in architectural circles.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said. “It takes my breath away. Yet for all its formality the room seems almost modern. Perhaps a classic modern.”

  Ross approved my words. “My mother could do things like that. She had the imagination to fly ahead into new worlds at times. She didn’t want marble staircases and the ballroom-sized entry hall that Flagler chose for his home, so she created this out of clouds and made someone build it for her.”

  “I already admire her tremendously,” I said.

  In some strange way, he seemed to withdraw a little from the warmth in my words, and went on more coolly. “The empty space up there above the stairs used to hold a portrait that Sargent painted of Allegra. It’s at the Metropolitan in New York now. Perhaps we’ll replace it with one of you.”

  “Oh, no!” I said too hastily, and he laughed again. I hadn’t earned the right to be up there, and I wondered uncomfortably if other wives had hung there too, and been in turn removed. But that wasn’t fair. I tried to cover my haste. “I’m going to love everything about this house.”

  “Don’t be too sure yet,” he said in the same cool tone. “It’s a difficult house to know. But come along. I want you to meet Gretchen before we settle into our rooms.”

  I wasn’t sure this was wise, under the circumstances, but I knew better by now than to object to anything that Ross proposed. We mounted the beautiful white stairs and I touched wrought iron lightly. The handsome foyer hardly prepared me for the drab and rather shabby hallway that stretched across the wide front of the house. Once its carpet had been rich with glowing color, but now it was faded and threadbare. Here and there a Louis Quinze chair or console interrupted the emptiness, and the flowered wallpaper was peeling in one corner.

  “So much neglect, as you can see,” Ross said. “Some of the house has been kept up, but Allegra would hate what has happened to the rest. Poinciana needs you, Sharon.”

  That pleased me more than anything. I wanted to be needed, and I meant to live up to what was expected of me. Somehow.

  The curious architecture of the house became evident as we followed the hall. Other corridors turned off at odd angles, and unexpected flights of steps led up or down. At the end of the hall, double doors of mahogany had been closed across the far apartment. Near the doors a tall, red-haired man in jeans and a blue pullover stood beside a table talking on a telephone. He gave Ross a salute of finger to temple, glanced at me with appraising gray eyes, and went on speaking in a low, assured voice.

  Ross didn’t knock, but opened the far doors that gave upon a formal parlor, and crossed it to a door that stood ajar upon a darkened bedroom. Here he tapped a warning of our presence.

  “Gretchen?” he said. “Gretchen, I’m home. I missed you at the airport. What’s all this about a fall downstairs?”

  “Go away!” said Ross’s daughter.

  The words made no impression on her father. He pushed the door wide and drew me with him into the bedroom. It was high-ceilinged, with two tall windows across the front. Draperies of some light, neutral material had been drawn across to shut out sunlight and leave the room in shadow. I could barely make out the double bed with its rumpled covering, and a dark head just visible on the pillow. Bits of clothing had been strewn around the room and I stepped over a scuffed sneaker.

  Ross advanced upon the bed, leaving me to stand hesitantly near the door. “None of that now! Sit up and let me have a look at you. I want you to meet Sharon.”

  The girl under the covers groaned deeply and flung a sheet over her head.

  “Open the draperies, please,” Ross said to me. I wanted to escape, but there seemed nothing to do but obey, permitting bright Florida sunlight to flood the room.

  Gretchen bounced indignantly and tried to burrow further under the covers. To my astonishment her father reached out and grasped the bedclothes, pulling them down, and when Gretchen would have turned over to hide her face in a pillow, he pinned her shoulders with both hands so that she had to look up at him.

  Gretchen Karl was developing a very colorful black eye.

  “So!” he said, as she went limp under his hands. “That creep hit you, didn’t he? No fall d
ownstairs did that.”

  “Oh, Daddy!” Gretchen wailed, and held out her arms. Ross sat on the side of the bed and enveloped her in an angry hug.

  I slipped quietly back to the hall, postponing any introduction, and found the man at the telephone just hanging up.

  “Hello,” he said, and held out his hand. “I’m Jarrett Nichols, Mrs. Logan. It’s too bad this had to happen right when Ross was coming home.”

  When I’d shaken his hand and murmured some agreement, I could find nothing more to say, and I stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting for someone to tell me what to do next. What had happened to that poise I was so noted for?

  “Anyway,” he went on, “it’s a good thing you’re here, both of you. I don’t believe in feuds.”

  “I didn’t know there was one,” I said hesitantly.

  He seemed to concentrate on me for the first time since that initial cool look in my direction, and I stood my ground and studied him back, starting at the top of his tousled red head. Somehow, I had expected that the man in whom Ross put so much trust would be older—and different. More polished in appearance perhaps, and not so informally dressed. The gray eyes I’d already noted were emphasized by scraggly red brows, his nose had a slight bend in it that was not unattractive, and his chin had a fighter’s look. Above it, the mouth was unexpectedly tender in a face so strong—though I had a feeling that this man smiled very little. I felt wary with him at once. Like Mrs. Broderick, he was ready to weigh me and find me wanting.

  “Mm,” he said, finishing his own appraisal. “You don’t look much like Ysobel Hollis.”

  “Did you know my mother?” I asked directly.

  “Not really. I met her a few times. And of course I saw her on stage. What happened in Belfast has hit everyone who admired her. I’m sorry about all that horror you’ve had to go through.”

  He sounded sorry enough, but my distrust remained, and I was glad of that glass case I could close around me, concealing what I felt. I had always backed away from talk about my mother, however admiring. And now I did so more than ever. Ysobel was in the past and it was safer for me if she stayed that way.

  “You’ve come as a surprise to this house,” he went on bluntly. “You might as well be aware of that.”

  “Marrying Ross was a surprise to me, too,” I admitted.

  His look continued to measure, but told me nothing of his conclusions. “Never mind. It’s done and you’re here. I suppose we’ll all get used to one another.”

  Again, a strange welcome. I wished Ross would come and rescue me from this outspoken man.

  “What do you think of the house?” he asked when the silence grew between us.

  “I haven’t seen much of it yet. The foyer downstairs took my breath away. I’m eager to learn more about Allegra Logan. Did you know her?”

  “A remarkable lady,” he said, but there seemed an odd inflection in his voice, as though he held back when it came to any discussion of Ross’s mother.

  Again there was silence, and Jarrett Nichols went a bit impatiently to the door of Gretchen’s suite and looked in. Ross beckoned to him from the bedroom, and he left me with apparent relief. It was obvious that he did not approve of Ross’s marriage and that all he could offer me was cool courtesy. Never mind—I could play that game, too!

  Just talking to him, I had begun to feel geared for resistance. How often in the past I had lived in a state of quiet combat. Even inside a glass case, one could be quietly stubborn. This wasn’t what I wanted now, but I had to find my own way to acceptance and respect, and I’d had more practice at this sort of resistance than Ross dreamed. I mustn’t bristle, but I wouldn’t be put down either.

  At that moment Mrs. Broderick reappeared around a far corner and came toward me. “Would you like me to show you to your room, Mrs. Logan?”

  I glanced toward the open door of Gretchen’s suite and saw that Ross and Jarrett were already deep in discussion. It occurred to me wryly that I hadn’t been formally dismissed by Ross as yet, but it was time to make a choice.

  “Thank you,” I told the housekeeper, and followed her down the hall.

  She led the way along a secondary corridor past a flight of circular steps that ran upward.

  “That’s the way to the rooms in the belvedere,” she told me. “Mr. Logan’s mother had a sitting room up there at the top, and her nap room, as she called it, was just below. We’ve prepared a room for you next to Mr. Logan’s, down this corridor, though of course you may want to make changes if you are going to live here.”

  I knew very well the customs of the rich. In Ross’s case there was a house in East Hampton and in Virginia, and the apartments in New York and London, but he had spoken as though he might not make the usual seasonal exodus. He never minded hot weather, he’d told me, and had thrived on it as a boy, just as his mother did.

  The wing we were now in seemed to extend at a right angle from the back of the house toward the lake. At the end of the corridor were two open doors, and Mrs. Broderick gestured toward the one on the left.

  “This is the Ivory Room. Mr. Logan’s room is on the right, with a connecting door between.” She stepped back to let me enter ahead of her.

  The room was indeed ivory. Pale and beautifully elegant—a silken room with hardly a touch of color except for light yellow draperies and a golden pillow on the chaise longue. A perfect room for a woman who lived in a glass case, I thought, and wondered why I felt depressed.

  “Your bath is over there,” Mrs. Broderick said, her feet whispering across the champagne carpet. “The dressing room adjoins it and I see that Albert has brought up your bags. I’ll send one of the maids to unpack for you, Mrs. Logan.”

  I told her that I preferred to unpack for myself, and she indicated the bell, in case I wanted to summon assistance.

  “Or you can always reach me on the house connection,” she added. “Just dial three.”

  I looked into the bathroom and found it enormous, with mirrors and gilded fixtures, and a great deal of old marble, including the huge sunken tub. The gold rug would be furry and soft, shielding one’s feet from the marble floor.

  In this suite there was no shabbiness and I wondered if Brett, Ross’s second wife, had done it over for herself.

  “How large is the staff at Poinciana?” I asked, moving back to the bedroom.

  “We’re somewhat shorthanded these days. There are only eight of the indoor help at present. Not including kitchen and laundry, of course. I want to consult with Mr. Logan about hiring more when he has time. Though help is difficult to find these days, and in any case Mr. Logan doesn’t like a house cluttered with people. The maids are supposed to keep out of his sight as much as possible. So you’ll need to ring if you want anyone. Of course, old Mrs. Logan had at least seventeen servants in the house when she was in residence here.” Apparently Mrs. Broderick didn’t mind the word “servant” if it wasn’t applied to her.

  The fact that she hadn’t considered consulting with me about the hiring didn’t disturb me. I had no feeling that I was in any way mistress of Poinciana as yet, but merely a stranger, visiting.

  Looking about at all this ivory perfection, however, I felt an urge to muss up the pillows, rumple the well-dressed bed, set the furniture askew.

  “This wasn’t Allegra Logan’s bedroom, was it?” I asked.

  Mrs. Broderick permitted herself a faint smile, and the intricate coils of her blond hair dipped slightly in my direction. “No, this wasn’t one of Mrs. Logan’s rooms. She preferred richer colors. That is, in the old days. Her rooms have been shut off for a long time. We don’t use them any more. There’s no need, with so many other rooms available and empty. Mr. Logan has done very little entertaining here for many years.” She hesitated. “Though of course that may change now.”

  If there was a question in her voice, I didn’t know the answer, and I remained silent.

  “Old Mrs. Logan designed and furnished the entire house originally,” Mrs. Broderick went on, a
hint of pride coming into her voice. “Though I worked for her only in her later years, I know what wonderful taste she had. She knew all about the antiques and fine paintings her husband had collected, and often she brought in experts to advise her. Until—” She broke off and I had the same sense of something suppressed that I’d had with Jarrett Nichols.

  “What happened to her?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I was beginning to feel increasingly interested in the woman who had built this house. In some ways she seemed more alive to me than those I had met within its walls.

  Mrs. Broderick’s expression reproved me for my question. “Perhaps Mr. Logan will be better able to tell you about that. If there is nothing else you wish, Mrs. Logan, will you excuse me? Word that you were coming was rather sudden, and there has been much to do to get ready. Dinner will be served at eight, but Mr. Logan usually likes cocktails downstairs around seven-thirty.”

  When she’d gone, I stood for a moment lost in thoughts of Allegra. There always seemed to be a sense of hesitation when her name came up, as though something of importance was being held back. I had been ready to admire her as the creator of Poinciana. In her role as mother, I wasn’t so sure. Talented and dramatic mothers could often leave something lacking where their children were concerned, but this had not seemed to be the case with Ross’s mother. After all, she had done a spectacularly good job with him. Hadn’t she? Anyway, I had other things to think about now.

  I stopped pretending to be sure and in command of all I surveyed.

  Across the room were arched doors that opened to the outside. I stepped through them eagerly and found myself on a wide upper loggia floored in terra cotta tiles. Moorish arches framed the view of the lake and ran along past a series of rooms, mine being one of them. Tiled steps led down to a pebbled courtyard, where tropical trees grew against the walls of the house, and bougainvillea clambered to the roof. Beyond, a wide lawn sloped toward the lake, its lush green dotted with coconut and royal palms. Strange to think that in the beginning there had been no palm trees in Palm Beach. They had all been imported when the island was built up from its sandbar state.