The Ebony Swan

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  There was a crawl space underneath the floor, so she didn’t break through completely. Only one leg dangled into empty space, caught by sharp daggers of wood. After a first effort to pull her leg free, she found the pain too great to struggle against.

  When she reached out with her arms, she found she could lean upon solid floorboards and gain some sort of purchase that would help her to pull free of the trap more gently. But again intense pain forced her to lie still, her body stretched out upon the floor, her head resting on her arms. The Black Swan lay under one hand.

  Her only chance was to scream for help—make someone hear. However, the cries she uttered sounded faint even to her own ears. Not nearly as loud as the thumping of her heart and the roaring in her blood.

  The boathouse was too far from the main house for anyone to hear. No one was likely to look for her in this place—at least not right away, since she came here so seldom. This would be the last place Gracie and George would look.

  In order to ease the pain, she made herself lie quietly. She must think, find a way out of her predicament. But her mind seemed to wander unprofitably. Beyond the partition that separated this higher section, she could hear the creek lapping, murmuring its song that had been part of her life for so many years. Ordinarily it was a peaceful sound but now there seemed nothing peaceful about it.

  Unwanted, unasked for—much too disturbing—the vision Susan had experienced in the church returned to her mind. How could she have seen those tombstones aboveground? How could she have known that place existed? This was not what Alex had hoped for when she’d sent Susan back to the church. She had hoped that if anything came to Susan, it would be uplifting, inspirational. What had happened was mysterious and frightening, yet it increased her own belief in some powerful spirit that came into focus in that place. Perhaps under that vaulted ceiling, with its ancient walls and windows, the beholder was brought to respect, to revere whatever was there.

  Never mind all that. For the moment only her own physical predicament was important. Once, long ago, she’d told Juan Gabriel that she didn’t like him to work here alone. If an accident occurred or he became ill, he would never be able to call for help. He had solved this by having a bell installed near his desk—an alarm that would sound in the house if he needed assistance. The bell was undoubtedly still there, but too far away from where she had fallen, just as the food she hadn’t eaten was too far away. What she had feared for her husband had happened to her.

  It was difficult to breathe, and she began to feel light-headed and dizzy as her brain filled with drifting, cloudy pictures. She must not faint. In order to bring help she must remain fully conscious.

  Once she felt sure that a bright light shone upon her—a spotlight. No, of course that wasn’t applause she seemed to hear, but only the sound of water beyond the partition.

  When the door opened, she didn’t really hear it. She only knew that John was there. A young, strong, beautiful John, who had come to rescue her. She needn’t worry now.

  She closed her eyes and gave herself joyfully into his arms.

  6

  As Susan sat on the porch waiting for Peter, she found herself replaying what had happened in the tower room. When she’d knelt before the old trunk, a wonderful warmth had filled her, as though for the first time since she’d been a small child she could recover something of her mother. Touching Dolores’s dresses, pulling out her own old toys that her mother too must have handled, Susan had felt a tie with the past that had always eluded her.

  Perhaps if she could release these inner feelings that had been unreachable for so long, she might dare to know more about herself. A lingering sadness concerning the present had surfaced in her. More for her grandmother than for herself. What were Alex’s “dusty memories” that she had not been able to sweep away? The young woman Alex had once been had emerged in glimpses now and then—not nearly so remote as Susan had thought.

  Haunting her thoughts most of all was that strange vision she had received in the church—and which had seemed to shock Alex. The impression of a place where tombstones had been crowded into yards, side by side, was still imprinted vividly in her mind. The images had seemed so sharp and clear that they must have meaning. Even the presence of that great, mysterious church haunted her. It had known centuries of existence—families who had come and gone, leaving their stamp upon history.

  For just those few moments when she stood in the church, something had seemed to center around her, offering revelations she lacked the wisdom to understand.

  So lost was Susan in these mysteries that she didn’t notice Peter Macklin’s car at the front of the house, or see him until he was halfway up the walk. Until now she had refused to think very much about the reaction she’d had to seeing Peter again when she arrived, but now, discovering him suddenly before her, the Susan who had known Peter as a child seemed to take possession of her without warning. Perhaps love as strong as that which she’d felt for Peter as a little girl could never be entirely erased. All the more reason for her to be careful. She was not about to go down some road that could only lead to more hurt and disillusionment.

  Peter walked with his head down, as though lost in his own troubled thoughts. When he looked up and saw her, he smiled, though the lines between his eyes remained. Instinctively, she wanted to touch and smooth them away. Of course that was just her nurturing nature. It meant nothing more.

  But she was much too aware of emotions she wanted to dismiss, and her smile was awkward and self-conscious. “Hello, Peter. I’m sorry my grandmother has given you this chore. If you need to cancel for any reason, I’ll certainly understand.”

  Inwardly she told the foolish child who was prattling on to be still—or at least to grow up.

  He studied her for a moment, as though uncertain about what he wanted to say.

  “Don’t worry, this isn’t a chore. Suppose we get started now, if you’re ready.”

  As they walked to his car, he explained where they were going. “Since you’ve met some of the Townsends, I thought you might like to have lunch at The Mulberry Tree, the restaurant Gilbert Townsend has created out of an old mansion.”

  Thinking of the uncomfortable meeting with Gilbert at the church, Susan wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again, but she couldn’t say this to Peter, so she agreed.

  “What did you do this morning?” he asked when he had turned the car north through stands of loblolly pine.

  She avoided mention of the church and the strange meetings with Gilbert and Hallie Townsend. Instead, she told him about going with Alex to the tower room and finding the old trunk that held all the treasures of her early childhood.

  “You know, Peter, every time I’m with my grandmother I have a sense that she’s holding something back. She’s not sure of me yet, and I have no way to get past her guard.”

  “Give her time. She needs you in her life, Susan. Ever since I’ve known Alex Montoro, she’s seemed a lonely woman. Yet she doesn’t allow anyone to come too close to her. Perhaps you’ll be the one who breaks through finally. Sometimes I have a sense that she’s onstage, playing a role, and that none of us knows who she really is. Or even what play she’s acting in.”

  “All that wasted talent!” Susan spoke regretfully. “She told me a little this morning about how she came to be a dancer. I don’t understand how she could give up a successful career and never dance again.”

  “Sometimes I’ve wondered if dancing could really have been that important to her, if she only believed in herself while Rudy Folkes was alive. She gave it all up too easily.”

  “Is there something else that’s more important to her?”

  “Perhaps, but, if there is, she hasn’t discovered it yet.”

  She glanced at the man in the seat beside her, and saw once more the lingering sadness that lay close to the surface in Peter Macklin.

  “Isn’t it a bit late fo
r such a discovery?” she asked.

  “I’d like to think it’s never too late. Not as long as we can breathe and find the courage to stay alive.”

  Was he thinking of his own changed life since his wife’s death—his closed office and the patients he no longer treated? She had a strong feeling that he would survive what had happened and find a new life for himself.

  “I think you must be a very good doctor, Peter.”

  That seemed to startle him. “What do you know about me as a doctor?”

  “You listen. Not all doctors know how to listen. They’re too busy pontificating.”

  He didn’t say anything, but the sadness remained. She went on more matter-of-factly.

  “You mentioned that my grandmother hasn’t been well. Can you tell me about that?”

  “It’s nothing that can’t be managed successfully. Her heart shows an irregular beat at times, and her blood pressure can go too high. Though mostly these things are under control—when she behaves herself.”

  “What medications are you giving her?”

  “That’s right—you’re a nurse, aren’t you, Susy? She’s not on any drugs. I use drugs only for emergencies, or when nothing else works. Blood pressure is one of the simplest things to bring down with natural therapies. Even her benign heart arrhythmia can be controlled without drugs.”

  He had caught her interest. “How do you manage that?”

  “A good high-fiber diet with no sugar. Sugar’s the first thing to eliminate. Garlic is an old remedy, and since it comes in capsules these days, one doesn’t have to become antisocial to take it in large doses. Potassium is important. Calcium and magnesium are good for both blood pressure and the heart. I hope you know about the fish oils, and the omega-3 oils? The Japanese—who are often way ahead of us—have done a lot of research on Co-Ql0, which we all need to take. Alex has been doing fine on these supplements for a long time. Of course emotional upsets need to be avoided.”

  “Which is where I come in?” His list of natural remedies had left her hopeful, but she knew what Colin would have asked. “Has this approach been proven with double-blind tests, Peter?”

  He snorted rudely. “They’ve been tested thousands of times by recovering patients. Only drug companies have the millions of dollars it takes to do double-blind tests. Double-blind doesn’t succeed in this field anyway, because all these nutrients work together. It’s almost pointless to pick out one and test it alone. Since nobody can own a vitamin or any other nutrient, the money for testing is just not there, even if it would work. The most important thing about what I’m doing is that none of these things has side effects. Most drugs can do a lot of damage, as you undoubtedly know. That’s why this is the future, Susan. Something that works can’t be stopped. The propaganda against what we’re doing is just another sign of panic. All patients need the freedom of choice to decide on their own treatment and doctor.”

  Susan nodded. A new medical world was opening for her.

  Peter went on. “Not proven doesn’t mean unproven. About three hundred years ago it was discovered that blood circulates. This was proven. Does that mean that blood didn’t circulate until somebody was able to prove it?”

  She laughed delightedly. “I think I’ve been waiting to meet you all my life, Dr. Macklin.”

  They had both relaxed, and Peter seemed pleased by her interest. “I like to think of myself as a doctor who calls on all available therapies for help. There’s so much that the medical profession hasn’t paid enough attention to—herbal remedies, homeopathy, acupuncture. And, of course, there are all the ways the mind can be taught to assist the body. We’re only beginning to tap into that. It’s not a matter any longer of curing a disease.”

  “What do you mean? Diseases are real enough, and they have to be dealt with.”

  “That’s true, but we need to look at the whole man and treat the patient instead of being concerned about something to which we’ve given a fancy name. Cause is important, and prevention is the key for me. All the mechanisms to achieve good health are given us at birth, yet we spend a good part of our lives destroying them. What I want to do with every patient, when it’s still possible, is to strengthen the immune system.”

  Listening, Susan remembered the excited young boy she had known. Now that his interest was aroused, the man was coming to life in the same way. Her own warm response startled her. It was not only his words, but the man, to whom she was responding so readily, and she wasn’t ready for this. She knew she must be very careful.

  “How else are you treating my grandmother’s heart problem?” she asked, glad to find that her voice betrayed nothing of the inner leap she had taken.

  “I’m giving her L-Carnitine and taurine, to begin with.”

  “Amino acids?”

  “Yes. They help the heart to regain its normal rhythm. And we’ve found the herb hawthorn to be especially helpful. All the other nutrients I’ve mentioned work together with these, and the result is gratifying.”

  “Perhaps you’re dealing with an enlightened group, but the patients I’ve been seeing are too much in awe of their doctors to object to anything they recommend.”

  “That’s changing too. The public is beginning to demand treatments that work. You’ll see, something will happen. It has already begun.”

  “With your approach are there always cures?”

  “I wish I could promise that, but we’re still learning as we go, and there are too many variables. Alex can indulge in some tempting sugar dessert and stir up her heart, even though she knows better.”

  “How can I learn about these things? Did you take a course, or is it self-taught?”

  “No courses yet, but there are hundreds of books and papers, if you want to learn. I can loan you all you care to read.”

  “I’d like that.” She knew Colin Cheney would dismiss what Peter was telling her. But then, Colin was an expert when it came to a closed mind.

  “There must be a good deal of opposition to what you’re doing.”

  “There is. Most medical journals won’t print our papers—even when the findings might change the status quo. But the grapevine is working, and young doctors are beginning to look past the blockade of orthodox opinion.”

  Susan became increasingly aware of the contrast between this vital, interested man and the one who had picked her up at the house. The very contrast troubled her, and she tried to put her feelings into words.

  “What about you, Peter? I hear you’ve closed your office and are turning away your patients. How can you bear to do that when you have so much to offer?”

  For a time he drove in silence. When he spoke again, the vitality had gone from his voice.

  “I hope this is a temporary hiatus, though I’m not too hopeful right now. In spite of the grand jury’s dismissal for lack of evidence, there’s a cloud over me. Either I had a hand in Marilyn’s death—or someone else did. The police don’t have a clue as to what happened, and neither do I. I’m still their best suspect. So until Marilyn’s death is cleared up, I won’t force my patients to make a choice.”

  Again she heard a deep sadness in his voice. There was so much more to consider here than the loss of his practice as a doctor.

  “I’ve been hearing about the return of the manuscript your wife was working on. Does that have any helpful significance?”

  “No one seems to know who left it at the library or why. Nor do we know why it was taken in the first place.”

  There were no answers, and they were both silent for a time.

  Then Peter said, “We’ll be at the inn soon, so I’d better warn you that we’re meeting someone there. Priscilla Bates was Marilyn’s good friend. In fact, when Marilyn and I decided to separate, she was going to move in with Priscilla temporarily in Richmond. This morning Priscilla phoned to say she wanted to see me—something to do with Marilyn. So I suggested s
he meet us at the inn, since I’d already planned to have lunch with you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Susan murmured that of course it was fine, but her attention was elsewhere. That Peter and Marilyn had intended to separate left her curious.

  Peter reached out to pat her arm. “We’re nearly there. I’m glad you’re along, Susan.”

  He turned the car off onto a straight, paved drive that led between a long row of mulberry trees. The trees cast thick black pools of noontime shade along each side of the way.

  “The early idea,” Peter said, “was to obtain silkworms and mulberry trees from Japan, as an adjunct product to tobacco. However, the silkworms wouldn’t produce and died in our climate, so a silk industry never developed in Virginia. These trees were left from that project.”

  A wide Victorian house stood across the end of the drive—white clapboard, with a slanting red roof of recent vintage, and decorative dark green shutters. Except for a touch of carpenter’s gothic on the edging of peaked roofs, none of the fanciful touches of the Montoro house existed here. The Mulberry Tree, for all its new life, was a dignified dowager, handsomely conservative. They left the car in a parking space and went up a red brick step to a roofed portico. The door stood open, and they entered a hall that was graciously wide. Stairs, carpeted in dark maroon, curved up along the wall on one side, and parlor and dining room doors opened on either hand. This was a bed-and-breakfast inn, as well as a restaurant open to the public.

  Eric Townsend came to welcome them, tall and blond and assured to the point of arrogance. He gave them a wide, false smile, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever make it as an actor. “Hello, Susan. Hi, Peter. I have a perfect table for you.”

  He led the way to an open gallery that was clearly a recent addition, and which overlooked the Rappahannock River. Iron frontwork patterned in a leaf design protected the outer rim of the gallery. Overhead, a slanted roof and awnings kept the sun away from diners. Only two other tables were occupied at the moment, and theirs was in a secluded corner.