by Andre Norton
“It’s a hundred miles from here, and in this kind of weather I’m not going to try to make a round trip in????? one day. I couldn’t, anyway, and see all I want to????? Gordon is tied up, and the fact is I don’t like traveling alone. Would you be willing to tag along? It would be for two, maybe three, days, and, after all, the whole story is in your period, too. It’s a chance to see the place and I don’t think anyone has for years, unless this Johnson trots out there by himself from time to time.”
I felt as if I had been handed the trip to England I had always longed for. The Kitteridge legend of family disgrace, murder, and mystery was known to me, yes. And to see the actual site, with Theodosia who was writing about it, was a chance I could hardly believe I would ever have.
“Oh—yes—!”
I made a hurried breakfast, dashed back to cram what might be needed for a short trip into my ever-ex-pandable flight bag, and was ready for Theodosia before an hour had passed, leaving a note for Miss Elizabeth, whom I had yet to see, enclosing the promised prepaid rent and explaining my absence.
We did have three days, exciting for both of us. It was on the way back that Theodosia spoke abruptly.
“I hate to go back. There’s something about that place which seems wrong.”
That she spoke of the carriage house, I understood. But her words also evoked for me the Abbey, and I, too, experienced a reluctance. It was now as if I returned from a vacation into bondage, the same slightly shrinking feeling I had always had before the life Aunt Otilda decreed had again closed about me after some very brief escape.
“The Austins—at least Miss Elizabeth—” I ventured, “almost seem as if they were living in another age.”
“They are. Time stopped for them at least fifty years ago!” she flashed back. “I gather that the old boy, Dr. Edward, was one of those domestic tyrants such as stud Victorian novels and give satisfaction to modern researchers. He married beneath him, according to the canons of his clan and time, when he married old Polchek’s daughter. And I gather he never let her forget it. There were four daughters, no sons.
“Elizabeth was the oldest, then there was Elinor born a good ten years later, Emma, two years younger, and finally Anne. Elinor was the black sheep. She was crossed out of the family Bible when she eloped with Harlan Blackmur.”
“Eloped?” I tried to connect such an exploit with the grim, time-embedded luxury of the Abbey. Yes, an elopement might even figure there.
“It was because of the theater,” Theodosia continued. “Edward was completely immersed in his Austeniana research. He spent most of Tillie’s cash on that. Finally young Blackmur—he was acting as Edward’s secretary at the time—suggested a theater to give plays made from the novels. Somehow he awakened a spark in Dr. Edward, and almost overnight the carriage house was enlarged, turned into a little theater, with Blackmur in charge. He had had some stage experience, and from all I have heard he was a charmer. Perhaps he thought he could manage the old man after he got the theater. They gave just one play, made from Pride and Prejudice. Then Elinor and he were caught publicly in an unmistakably intimate scene of their own. There were more fireworks than the start of World War II, and Elinor and Blackmur were shown the gate—fast.
“It was made very clear that Dr. Edward did not intend to welcome any suitors. It might mean that some of Tillie’s lovely money would be diverted from his own beloved pursuit. Tillie, I gather, was thoroughly crushed by that time. Her father had brought her up in the woman-is-property-and-a-servant belief, from his European background, and she just never had a chance to exert herself.
“Emma escaped by charming Horvath—he was younger than Dr. Edward but not much. And he was rich. She saw that he was about the only escape she would ever get when she met him at her grandfather’s house. I think he fancied Tillie at one time, before the old man thought Dr. Edward’s social connections might mean a step up for his daughter. So she had her wedding big enough to plaster all the newspapers before, during, and after. She traveled in Europe, after Horvath conveniently died, and she cut quite a swath there as one of the semi-Jet Set. Then, when she began to age she could not stand losing any sign of youth among them, and came back here to play great lady frog in the small puddle of Ladensville.
“Anne got herself a man, too. Through Emma, really—an attaché, naval—at one of the smaller embassies. She and Emma were fairly close. They had the same outlook on things. Captain Frimsbee rose in rank, due to the attrition of the war, and went down with his ship in late ’44. Now Anne pushes along on her pension and spends her life trading on naval connections for long visits. She makes herself useful to such hostesses as will give her room and board, while Emma, finding Anne’s connections no longer of any great use, has written her off. Emma did fix up the carriage house and present it to Anne’s son, who was a naval officer and a good escort now and then. But when he married and then was invalided out of the picture in Vietnam, she speedily decided that Irene and son were no longer necessary. Irene does tend to be a dreary soul, and Emma, as I hear it, dislikes any suggestion of ill health or trouble about her.
“Poor Miss Elizabeth was the one who was caught. Her mother was an invalid—real or imaginary—for a good many years. I would think that any wife of Dr. Edward might well take to her bed to escape. And during those years, she ran the house. Not only that but she found her own fanciful retreat. Deliberately or not, she became a period piece, out of a much earlier period. I think she really picked the year of her birth—1899—and decided to stay in it as either her mother or her grandmother. She does it magnificently and has become a kind of timeless symbol of another age.”
“Why, I wonder?” Another kind of retreat? Did Miss Elizabeth feel secure only wrapped in the trappings of an era where there was a certain solidity to life which we had never known and could probably never know in the future either? We speak of that immediate past now with sneers, with stimulated horror at its narrowness. Still, those contemporary with it were the last to see life as a solid and firm thing. For the persons who abided by its rites and customs, there had been that security.
“Miss Elizabeth is probably the only one who knows. If she is happier playing that role, then she deserves to be allowed to do so. She certainly has little in the modern day to make her even passably content Dr. Edward kept his grip on Tillie’s money even from the grave. He set up a trust fund to buy future relics—if any could be found—for his proposed Austin library. Miss Elizabeth got the house—period. That she has managed to keep going at all is a tribute to her grit and drive. If she can save pennies wearing out her mother’s old frocks—such as she considers suitable—then she will do it. Every cent counts to her, nowadays. I think Emma makes her a small allowance—and expects a big return in service for it”
“Emma does not sound like a very pleasant neighbor—”
“She’s a rich bitch!” Theodosia spat “She has abominable manners, the cunning of a peasant without any real intelligence, and the instincts of a Nazi storm trooper. Two months ago she broke her hip and since then she has—luckily—been removed from our horizon. I intend to remove myself before she comes out and back from that superlative nursing home and takes up residence again.” Theodosia spoke with such heat, I could well believe that she had met Emma Horvath head-on in some contest of wills, but she did not enlarge on that last statement.
However, as we swept up the now-cleared drive leading to Northanger Abbey, I was very much of a mind to move myself as soon as I could locate another place. Nothing Theodosia had told me made the future look pleasant. As we pulled in to stop under the portico, Theodosia exclaimed and pointed.
Against the massive front door, there hung a spray of evergreen tied with a swag of deep purple ribbon. I blinked. Again time rolled away—the custom of another age confronted us.
“Who—” Theodosia wondered.
I was reluctant to raise my hand to the bell near that antiquated sign of dignified and decorous grief. Before I could force myself to tha
t move, the door itself opened, and Preston Donner came out.
“Miss Jansen—Mrs. Cantrell—” He made his funny, old-fashioned inclination of the head as if he, too, had somehow been touched by the formal air of the past. “Mrs. Horvath is dead.” He spoke abruptly, almost as if he held us somehow to blame for that. I would have expected him to use the usual euphemism of “passed away”—his bald words were out of the character I had built for him.
“When?” Theodosia asked, as he added nothing to that.
“Monday night. The funeral is tomorrow. It is very hard on Miss Elizabeth. If you will excuse me—I have an errand—” His briskness was almost rude as he turned away. I wondered if he indeed felt some emotion.
Theodosia looked at me. “If you can’t stick it here,” she said quickly, “our latchstring is out. Just come over.”
I thanked her quickly. But I did not intend to become a problem for the Cantrells, even though I might well discover it best to leave Northanger Abbey.
Inside I fronted Miss Elizabeth herself. As I could have expected, her floor-sweeping dress was black. Above the high collar of that, her face was white, her skin looked like well-worn, grayish parchment, drawn tightly over the good bones. Ill at ease, I muttered condolences, the usual meaningless things one says at such times. Only, looking at Miss Elizabeth, I wished that there was something I could do for her.
She made a visible effort to retain her usual composure. “Thank you.” Her voice was very remote and cool. “Everything has been arranged. Though I fear we are not serving dinner this evening—”
“Of course. And perhaps I should arrange other accommodations—”
“Not at all, Miss Jansen.” Her voice firmed. “The service will be held here, since my sister will rest in our private lot. But the ceremony is only for the immediate family. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
I felt a twinge of shame, for my proposed flight had been really for my benefit, not hers. And by Theodosia’s account, she needed money.
“Of course you are free to leave—” Did her eyes hold a shadow of a plea? I decided quickly that that was only fancy. But I was forced into a decided denial.
She followed me up the stairs apparently on some errand of her own. I jerked open the door of my room. Another door down the hall matched mine in a second creak. Irene came out. She was not wearing a dingy robe this time, but a trim black suit—though that, on her, accented just those points of figure better concealed. Her mousy blond hair had been pinned up and lavish makeup (especially blue eye shadow) applied with not the most fortunate results.
Sighting Miss Elizabeth she paused, her too-red lips pulled into a wry grimace. Aunt and niece-by-marriage, they might have been defending rival barricades. Miss Austin lobbed the first grenade.
“You are going out, Irene? I thought that Stuart—”
Irene interrupted, her voice shrill. “Maud promised to sit with him.”
“Maud was to have the afternoon off. Tomorrow—”
“I know very well what will happen tomorrow, Aunt. In the meantime I have important business of my own!”
“I did not know that the hospital had extra visiting hours—”
Irene Frimsbee scowled defiantly. “I’m not going to the hospital.” She shaped each word distinctly, as one might to a child or a deaf person. “And I’m paying Maud for her time. She’s satisfied.”
She brought her right hand from behind her back. In it was a clutch purse of black, a gaudy rhinestone “I” on it. Her banner of revolt so displayed, she faced Miss Elizabeth. I guessed her defiance was shaky.
“I can’t help it!” She protested in answer to something which had not been spoken. “I can’t pretend I’m sorry she’s gone. You can’t expect me to, knowing what she did!”
“I expect nothing, Irene.” Miss Elizabeth’s voice was even more remote.
Irene Frimsbee pushed past to the stairs. I was suddenly conscious I had been a witness to a scene which did not concern me, and hurriedly shut my door.
The next hour I spent unpacking and inspecting my room. But I was haunted by the feeling I should be doing just the opposite. At last I dropped into a chair by the window. The winter dusk had already begun to close in, and I could see the wink of car lights along the street.
A small foreign car swung into the drive. It did not disappear under the portico but passed on. I was curious enough to go to watch it through the garden window. A man had gotten out, was talking to someone still within, as if he were loath to go. Then he started down the walk leading to the carriage house. Gordon Cantrell—
My watch told me it was a little past five, not too early to hunt a restaurant. But I was to witness a second burst of family fireworks before I left. As I was putting on my boots in the lower hall there was a steady peal of the doorbell. Being closest, I automatically answered.
A taxi was pulling away, while outside stood a woman muffled in a fur coat, smart but scuffed luggage piled to one side. She stared at me appraisingly.
“And who might you be?” she demanded abruptly.
“Erica Jansen.” I was startled into answering before her rudeness awakened my resentment.
Just as I had been attracted to Miss Elizabeth at our first meeting, so was I repelled by this newcomer. She crossed the threshold and looked about the hall peevishly, making no move to bring in her luggage. Since I certainly did not intend to do so, and the wind was cold, I closed the door.
“Anne!” Miss Elizabeth appeared from the back of the house, holding out her hands in welcome. But Anne Frimsbee ignored her gesture. Instead, she eyed the closed door of the parlor.
“So she’s dead at last.” There was no mistaking a satisfied note in that.
“Anne!” Miss Elizabeth repeated in shocked reproof.
Anne Frimsbee rounded on her elder sister. “You don’t expect me to shed tears—not after the way she’s treated Charles. She was as money-mean as they come. And you know as well as I do that’s true. My bags are out there—I’ve had a hellish trip, and I’m going to rest until dinner.” She mounted the stairs without looking back.
Miss Elizabeth sighted me. If she was disturbed at a witness, she did not show it.
“You are going out, Miss Jansen?” Was that a quiet hint that the sooner I took myself off the better?
“For dinner.” I was eager to be away. “Is there a restaurant within walking distance, Miss Austin? I would like to be back early.”
“There is a McDonald’s two blocks over. Or the Humbolt. That is one block west and three down. Mr. Donner is fond of that. Oh,” she said as I opened the door, “there is Anne’s luggage.”
Since Miss Elizabeth was moving forward as if to collect the bags, I did what I would not have done for their owner—I handed them within. But after the door closed, I was glad to be out. The warm comfort and security the house had seemed to offer at first was near gone. I spattered through slush and glanced aloft at massing clouds. I must make up my mind and move, as soon as I decently could.
When I entered the Humbolt, I was glad of my choice. It looked as if it had been remodeled from an old barn, and because I was early I had a good choice of tables. My selection was a booth to one side, out of the line of any draft from the doors.
The prices quoted on the menu were high, but I thought I deserved a treat. Only when I had given my order did I hear the murmur of voices from the booth ahead of mine.
“—dead. You’ll have to do something—” Low and masculine.
“Just give me time. I have a plan. Just you be at—” a feminine voice arose and then dropped again.
The waiter brought me salad, then the party before me hailed him. I would not have seen the speakers, had not my napkin slipped to the floor. As I made a grab for it I caught sight of a coat which could not easily be forgotten. That hideous black and white plaid was the one Irene Frimsbee had worn Saturday night.
So Irene had a meeting here with a man whom I had not seen. The “death”—Mrs. Horvath’s?
&
nbsp; I lingered as long as I could, for I disliked the prospect of the cold walk back. But most of all, though there was no real reason for that, I dreaded to return to that house. Only I would not intrude on Theodosia in spite of her invitation.
Marriage—what led people to marry then find themselves duped? Did Theodosia regret hers? It was simply that I sensed hers was not an easy household. Even I might have faced such a situation had—that thought I determinedly pushed away.
It was only seven, but I had plenty to read and a good lamp in my room. So I plowed back once more through the slush. Coming in from the cold, I was aware of a cloying odor of flowers—and glanced apprehensively at the closed doors of the parlor. No funeral home for the Austins—Miss Elizabeth was keeping to the once well-known pattern of a lying-instate. But the problems of the family were not mine.
When I reached my room, sleet beat against the window. I looked over my books, but I could not settle down to research reading tonight. On the drum table near the fireplace was what I should have expected to find in this house: a full set of Jane Austen’s ironical romances.
Emma, so esteemed by many critics, was never to my taste. Pride and Prejudice I knew too well for it to hold me when I was disturbed. My hand hovered between the glorious fun of Northanger Abbey and the quieter Persuasion. It was Anne Elliot’s renunciation, and the ten-year-after satisfying reward, which I chose. Those passing years—I was not going to think of my hopeless five. I opened the book:
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch-hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage—