“I asked Jarrett Nichols if there was a picture of your mother I could see,” I explained as Ross pulled me up. “That’s why he showed me these scrapbooks. I want to read them all eventually. If I’m to know her house, I must know her. Will you show me the house now?”
For some reason he was not entirely pleased with my interest in Allegra’s scrapbooks, and I wished I could ask him why openly. But I had already learned to tread with caution around Ross’s sensibilities, and I recognized that the subject of his mother was one he wanted to drop. Showing me Poinciana was different, however. He put an arm around me as we started on our tour.
The downstairs rooms were extensive. Hundreds of people could have been lost in them. There were drawing rooms and small parlors, a wing of offices, a huge library with thousands of books on the shelves—a place I would return to again and again, I knew. Shabbiness was evident in those rooms that went unused today, but I could glimpse what they had once been. On every hand were antiques of a value that could hardly be estimated, and I felt a small thrill over fulfilling my dream of my own private museum to learn about and study.
The formal dining room was enormous, with high-backed chairs down each side of a long, shining table, bare now of place settings. No concession to Florida climate had been made here, and there were no flowered fabrics, no warm-weather lightness. From elaborate plaster rosettes hung two chandeliers, their shining pear drops of rock crystal. As Ross touched a switch their reflection gleamed from the long table. Against light green damask walls hung family portraits.
The place of honor above the mantel was held by a handsome portrait of Charles Maynard Logan, and I went to stand before it. He had chosen to be pictured sitting at his desk, with a globe on a stand nearby—symbol of far-flung Logan interests. I could make out the lands of the Middle East, from which Meridian Oil had made its billions. He wore the sober clothes of a businessman, with the wider collar and foulard tie of another day. His hair had been gray when the portrait was painted and it was not a young man who looked down at me, but a man of great assurance and strength.
I wondered what he would have thought of his son’s new marriage. Would he have disapproved of Ross’s taking so young a wife? I thought I saw a glint of humor in the eyes of Allegra’s husband, as though it amused him to find himself sitting for his portrait.
Making a sudden comparison that disturbed me, I realized that humor was a trait Ross seemed to lack.
“I think your father must have enjoyed a good joke,” I said.
“He did. Too often and sometimes inappropriately,” Ross told me. “My mother was forever trying to hush him when he got out of hand.”
“Couldn’t she laugh too?”
“Oh, she laughed all right—but mostly at her own jokes.”
I ventured on delicate ground. “I’ve never heard you tell a joke, Ross. In fact, I don’t think you laugh a great deal.”
“Perhaps I find very little to laugh about. But aren’t we getting too serious about humor?”
His arm around me tightened, and I felt again a twinge of apprehension. As the day wore on, the hours would move relentlessly toward night. It was easy to assure myself that I would never allow last night to be repeated. But how could I stop it when the time came? I hadn’t stopped it last night. If what I’d believed then was true, what was I to do? There seemed a sudden void at the very pit of my being. Perhaps I wasn’t facing the truth because I didn’t dare to.
I moved from his touch to walk beneath other portraits on a side wall, and Ross introduced me to them, one by one—aunts and uncles, the young brother and sister who had died. But oddly, no grandfathers or grandmothers. The heritage of wealth that led to portraits must have begun wholly with Ross’s father. There was, however, a fine painting of Ross himself.
He had chosen to stand with his back to a window, through which Poinciana’s belvedere could be glimpsed. On the other side of the window in the painting stood a handsome vitrine, its glass cabinet on high spindly legs. It was probably of walnut, with fruitwood marquetry, all meticulously painted in by the artist. The inlaid motifs had obviously been inspired by Japanese art, and the glass shelves held tiny netsuke. I stood before the picture, fascinated by its detail.
“This is hardly a standard portrait,” I said. “Much more interesting, though some of the focus is taken away from the central figure.”
“Not really. Like that globe in my father’s portrait, the details here show my interests.” He seemed pleased that I liked the painting. “You can’t tell much about a man’s life from most of these portraits.”
I went on, looking for the one picture I didn’t see. “Isn’t there one of Allegra?”
“She never liked to be painted. The Sargent was the only one she would ever sit still for, and that was when she was young. She knew the value of being painted by an artist like Sargent, but she was too active and vigorous a woman to give up time to a lot of foolish sittings. So she preferred to have photographs taken. How many times I’ve seen her bustling about this room, giving orders for some enormous dinner party. And then presiding in style—her own inimitable style—for a great occasion.”
“You must have given a few dinner parties in this room yourself?”
His mouth seemed to tighten. “Too many. That’s over now, thank God. I hated it. Come along and I’ll start you on the art collections. There’s something in the gallery I want to show you. A surprise I’ve been saving.”
As I went with him, I was still puzzling over his remark about too many dinner parties. Had the life Ross inherited been far more of a burden than I had guessed? Again I felt a touch of sympathy for the imposing, complex man I had married.
As we followed another branching corridor, I tried to speak of pleasanter things, and told him of my admiration for Gretchen’s photographs that I’d seen in the tower room. Again he seemed pleased.
“I saw the double shots she did of you,” I told him.
“Ah yes—my dual nature. Which one do you think I am?”
Perhaps this wasn’t a pleasant topic, after all. The question was casually asked, never doubting my answer, and I should have replied quickly. But the right words wouldn’t come, and my hesitation lasted a moment too long.
His eyebrows went up a little. “So you’re not sure?” he said, yet, strangely, he sounded almost pleased.
I looked into a face that seemed more saturnine than I’d realized, and saw that his silver-flecked eyebrows really did have an upward twist.
“She caught your eyebrows very well,” I said.
His laughter rang out along the corridor. “There! You see, I can laugh. As a matter of fact, I felt rather flattered by that picture. I would say that fellow was a very forceful man.”
Like his father? There had been unquestioned strength in Charles Maynard Logan’s face. One couldn’t doubt that he had been a powerful force in his day. I had taken it for granted that Ross possessed much of the same quality, yet now I sensed his need for reinforcement—as though he himself might doubt that very fact. Somehow a disquieting thought.
“There was one thing that happened when I was in the tower that I don’t understand,” I went on. “I was looking through a portfolio of Gretchen’s pictures when I came across one she took of Jarrett Nichols’s wife and son. I was interested in it, but Gretchen snatched it out of my hand and tore it up. Why?”
“Come along,” Ross said, his hand firm on my elbow. “We’ll never be through with the house at this rate. And I want to get back to work.”
For once I didn’t let him overrule me, but pulled back. “No! Please, Ross. I’m tired of mysteries. I’ve been running into blockades that you’ve set up against me ever since we arrived at Poinciana. Topics that seem to be forbidden. I’ve even thought of Bluebeard’s wife!” I managed a smile. “Don’t you think that when I ask a question it should be answered?”
The saturnine look was back—that dark look of Gretchen’s picture. For a moment I thought he might stride angrily away
from me. Instead, he made an effort and returned my smile.
“Sometimes you provoke me a little, Sharon. There’s a time and a place for your questions. I don’t much like it when they come popping out of nowhere. We’ll talk about Pamela Nichols some other day.”
I couldn’t accept either his tone or his words, but I had to be satisfied for now, and we went on toward the gallery wing. Allegra, he told me, had built it especially to hold Charles Logan’s collection of paintings, and she had added many finds of her own. Wealth was to spend, and there were no limitations in Allegra’s day.
Again there were generous double doors, and when Ross opened them we stepped through into a long, narrow room that stretched toward the lake at the southwest end of the house. I remembered noting it earlier when I’d explored the grounds. The Italian influence was in evidence here, with marble floor and arches, and a high, ornate ceiling. But the lighting of the pictures was excellent, and nothing was lost in distorting shadow.
As we came in, a guard left his chair near the doors, saluting Ross with finger to cap before he disappeared behind us, clearly obeying the edict that those who served around the house were to remain invisible.
I saw at once that it would take months of returning to this room before I could appreciate all of its treasures. The first look was bewildering. I was more accustomed to the carefully spaced displays of museums. Here, every inch of wall space had been covered with framed pictures. There were Cézannes and Renoirs that I had never seen in reproductions. Several Gauguins occupied a corner, and there were two Van Goghs.
“My mother bought all of those,” Ross said. “Dad leaned more toward Turners and Constables, as you can see.”
As he spoke, I caught a faint movement from the corner of my eye. A door at the far end of the room seemed to be open just a crack—as though someone might be standing there listening. Ross didn’t notice, and as we moved on I decided to ignore whatever I had seen.
“Did your parents collect any of the American artists?” I asked.
“Of course. You’ll find Mary Cassatt, Bellows, Eakins, even a lesser Whistler. And with his interest in landscape my father was attracted to the Hudson River school, with all those mountains and rather rigid outdoor scenes.”
As we moved on, I paused in delight before a Breughel—a charming winter scene of white snow and black tree trunks, with little figures of dogs and men, and a distant pond dotted with skaters.
“How on earth do you protect all this?” I asked.
“There’s an excellent alarm system, and a special inner room for the most valuable paintings. Here is the door. I’ve turned off the alarm for the moment.”
The same door that had been left ajar was closed, but when we went through there was no one there. No other exit from the room seemed evident, so I must have been mistaken.
This extension of miniature gallery was less ornate and lighted entirely by ceiling fixtures along the top of each wall. I gasped at what I saw. Rubens, Vermeer, Tintoretto! A Study of a Spanish town done in brooding tones of green and black. El Greco! Just to walk among such paintings outside of a museum sent shivers up my spine. Yet somehow, so private and protected a collection seemed a sad fate for work that deserved to be seen by hundreds of thousands.
“Shouldn’t these be in a museum?” I asked.
“Some have been given away, when the tax savings were right. But my father liked the idea of owning them, and so did Mother.”
“Do you feel that way too? About owning?”
“Of course. I can spend hours here whenever I please. I enjoy what I possess. I suppose I’ll eventually will them to one of the museums that are always begging for them.”
The way he spoke of possessing made me uneasy again. I was beginning to find certain aspects of Poinciana more unsettling than I’d expected, and I remembered too what Gretchen had said about my fitting into her father’s collections. Rebellion was stirring in me, but I mustn’t let it out. Not yet.
“My mother was a great accumulator,” Ross went on. “She had her own wealth to spend as she pleased, but she had a good business sense too. She knew that what she bought would increase in value. There are antiques in some of those rooms we walked through that are priceless.”
I turned from the magnificent paintings, feeling invisible walls moving in around me. Suddenly I wanted to escape from this private, self-absorbed world.
“Mrs. Broderick told me that your mother’s rooms have been kept as they used to be,” I said. “May I see them?”
“If you wish. But first there’s that surprise I have for you. Come over here.”
A small half-circle of alcove had been built into one end of the room. I had thought it empty at first glance, but now I saw that curtains of azure blue velvet hung across the space. Ross stepped to one side and drew on the cords of a pulley. The curtains parted to show the portrait hidden behind them. I gasped as Ysobel Hollis smiled down at me from a background of more blue curtains. My mother was younger in the painting than I remembered her, but it was so lifelike, so real, that if I reached out I would surely touch flesh and blood. My own flesh and blood. She was wearing a favorite primrose yellow dress, her short curly hair black in contrast, her face pert and smiling.
Ross’s arm came about me and for a moment I leaned against him weakly, then drew away. “Do you remember when that portrait was painted?” he asked.
I did indeed. It had been done a number of years ago, and its painting had become something of a joke in our family. Some “secret” admirer of my mother’s had commissioned it. It was to be his if my mother would pose and accept a fabulous sum as a gift for the children’s hospital she was sponsoring. We were in London at the time and a notable English portrait painter had been engaged to paint her. When the portrait was done, Ysobel had liked it so much that she had been reluctant to part with it. The artist had caught not only her verve and vitality, but a lovely generosity that looked out of the canvas, saying the same things she always told her audiences with her eyes and voice: “I love you. Come to me.”
I stared dry-eyed at the portrait, remembering something strange my father had said in a soft undertone that first time he had viewed the finished portrait: “Things are not always what they seem.”
Only now was I beginning to understand a little what he had meant. Now, if I looked long enough at Ysobel’s face, I might discover truths that I had long kept hidden from myself. Truths that I was perhaps not yet ready to face. In any case, what did they matter now? Only Ross mattered to me at this instant, and the terrible inference of the portrait. He too had seemed to be what he was not.
Tears came at last, not only because the portrait had opened wounds, but also because it was Ross Logan who had commissioned the painting. Now I must confront what I had been trying all morning to deny: Last night had been real.
He was clearly dismayed by my tears. “Darling, you mustn’t cry over this. I thought you would be pleased.”
He tilted my head to kiss my lips and I kept my eyes closed because I didn’t want to know whether he looked at the portrait while he kissed me.
When he gave me a handkerchief, I dried my eyes, trying hard once more to save my pride. “I’m sorry. It was just—just the shock of seeing that portrait again. Everything came back so sharply.”
“Of course. I understand,” he said, and I knew that he didn’t understand at all.
When I turned to escape this small space that had begun to stifle me, he put a hand on my arm.
“Wait, Sharon. I want to show you another whimsy of Allegra’s. Look here.”
He pulled back a portion of the curtain behind Ysobel’s portrait to reveal a door. It opened away from us into a passage that moved into darkness.
“Where does it go?” I asked.
“It opens into an annex at one end of the ballroom. Allegra always liked to have her escape routes handy.”
“Escape from what?”
“Bores. People she disliked or didn’t want to see at that
moment. When she chose, she could disappear with the expertise of a magician.”
Now I understood that something I had noted earlier would have been possible. “Ross, when we were in the big gallery, I noticed that the door to this room was ajar. Or thought I did. But when I looked again it had closed. Do you suppose someone could have been here, and gone away down the passage? Isn’t it dangerous to leave this entrance to the gallery unprotected?”
“Oh, it’s not unprotected,” he said. “The door at the far end of the passage is kept bolted from this side. And the alarm system works there too.”
“Is it bolted now?”
He touched a switch that lighted the passageway, and went to the door at the far end. The bolt was open. He closed it impatiently and came back to me. “Of course, others in the house have access to these rooms. But this door is supposed to be kept locked at all times. I’ll speak to the guard about it. Then if you want to see Allegra’s rooms, I’ll take you to them.”
When he’d spoken in imperious anger to the man he addressed as “Steve,” he led the way out of the long gallery, and up one of those unexpected flights of stairs that Allegra had caused to be placed around turning corridors.
At the top I was startled by the sudden appearance of Keith Nichols. The boy had been nowhere in sight, and then without warning he was there, staring at us, equally startled. I wondered if he had been the watcher who had opened and closed the doors downstairs. Since this was Saturday, he had no school.
Ross regarded him sternly. “I thought all this was going to stop. Were you down in the gallery just now?”
“Yes, sir, I was.” Keith tilted his head of red hair, looking up at Ross, undaunted. “I lost Brewster, and I think he’s hiding in the house. Mrs. Broderick said he wasn’t to come inside, so I’m trying to find him.”
“That had better be the truth,” Ross said.
“Yes, sir!” Keith grinned at us impishly and seemed to disappear through the wall.
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