by JoAnn Ross
"It sounds wonderful," Alex agreed, returning his smile.
There was a momentary lull in the conversation. The way they were all suddenly staring at her made Alex feel like a laboratory specimen.
The suspended moment was broken by the arrival of a housemaid with a trolley of steaming tea and fresh-baked pastries. Over the brief repast, Averill entertained Alex with amusing anecdotes of past sailing adventures.
Zach did not enter the conversation. Nor did Miranda, who seemed content to sip her Scotch and glower at Alex. Eleanor, too, remained oddly quiet, watching Alex with a deep, unwavering gaze that reminded Alex of the first time they'd met.
After a time, fatigue from the trip abetted by the strained atmosphere, began to take its toll.
"You've had a long drive," Eleanor said, noticing Alex's slight, stifled yawn. "Why don't we get you settled into your room?"
"Thank you. I am a little tired," Alex admitted.
She followed Eleanor out of the library, up a gracefully curving staircase and down a hall adorned with framed, formally posed portraits of elegantly clad individuals she assumed were Lord ancestors. For some reason she could not explain, she paused momentarily before a closed door.
Watching Alex stop in front of Anna's nursery, Eleanor experienced a burst of pure victorious pleasure. Of course Anna would remember which door it was!
"Your room is right next door, dear," Eleanor said in a mild tone she was a very long way from feeling.
Shaking her head to rid it of a sudden strange, slightly disorienting sensation, Alex entered a room that was both luxurious and cozy at the same time. The bed, ornately carved from the same dark wood that graced the honeycomb ceiling in the library, was draped with a crocheted comforter.
More crocheted and needlepoint pillows had been scattered at the head of the mattress. There was a fireplace in this room, as well, topped by a hand-carved mantel; needlepoint tapestry rugs were scattered over the polished oak flooring.
Ceiling-high windows looked out over the vast green grounds; from this vantage point, Alex could view a Palladian teahouse, leafy dark green hedges and a red clay tennis court that had been built beside a serene, crystal blue swimming pool.
"It's absolutely lovely," she murmured. "Exquisite, actually."
"I want you to feel at home here, Alex."
She laughed at that. "Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine living in a home like this," she said with her characteristic frankness. "But I know I'll be comfortable," she tacked on quickly in a belated attempt to avoid hurting Eleanor's feelings.
"I do so hope so," Eleanor said fervently. "The bathroom's right through that door. It's stocked with soaps and shampoos and various other items, including a hair dryer, but if you need anything, anything at all, just pick up the phone and dial zero for the housekeeper. She'll be able to get you anything you wish."
"I'll be fine."
"Then I guess I'll leave you to your rest," Eleanor murmured, appearing oddly reluctant to leave.
Something occurred to Alex as the older woman reached the door. "Oh, I could use my suitcase from the limo."
"It's already been brought upstairs," Eleanor assured her. "Maria has already put your things away."
"Maria?"
"Juanita and Jesus' daughter. Juanita is the housekeeper," she explained. "Jesus is our main gardener. He took over after Averill's father, who had the job for years, died. Maria's the upstairs maid."
With that she was gone, leaving Alex to sink onto the bed and stare around at her luxurious surroundings.
"The upstairs maid," she murmured. "Of course." She began to giggle. "Boy, Mom," she said, flinging herself backward onto the mattress and staring up at the restful garden mural painted on the ceiling. "I sure hope you can see me now."
Although Alex was tired, she found she could not relax. After thirty minutes or so, inexplicably drawn to the room next door, she crept back down the hallway, feeling like a cat burglar.
The room was a lovely flowered bower. Dainty pink rose blossoms bloomed on the cream wallpaper, stuffed animals and exquisitely dressed dolls with porcelain faces and hands lay atop a quilt hand-appliquéd with pink and pastel yellow tulips. Peeking out from beneath the quilt was an eyelet dust ruffle accented with pink grosgrain ribbon; more white eyelet draped a round bedside table and framed the windows. A pine rocking horse painted glossy white and boasting a white yarn mane stood in one corner of the room, while a Victorian dollhouse claimed another corner. Entranced, Alex was examining a beautiful wicker carriage, fit for a princess—or her dolls—when Eleanor, who'd come upstairs to fetch her for dinner, entered the room on silent cat feet.
"This was Anna's room."
The quiet voice behind Alex made her jump. "Anna?" A pink-cheeked, cupid-mouthed doll lay in the wicker carriage; Alex reached down and carefully adjusted the battenberg lace christening gown.
"My granddaughter."
"I didn't know you had a granddaughter." Now that she thought about it, Eleanor had never mentioned any family other than her late husband, James. Alex had assumed the couple had been childless.
"Oh, yes." A shadow moved across the older woman's face. "She was the most beautiful child. With a personality like summer sunshine. Even as a baby, she brightened the room with her sweet smile. Her mother, my son Robbie's wife, always accused me of spoiling her, but I never believed it possible to spoil a child with too much love."
"That's what my mother always said," Alex murmured. Although she may not have possessed Anna Lord's wealth of toys and treasures, Alex had always known that she was much loved. "You said was," she said, as the thought suddenly occurred to her. "Anna isn't—"
"Dead?" Eleanor broke in, saving Alex from having to say the unthinkable. "No." She shook her auburn head. "No, my Anna isn't dead. Unfortunately her parents are. They were murdered," she revealed. "Downstairs, in the library, twenty-eight years ago. When Anna was only two."
"How tragic!"
"It was horrific," Eleanor said. "But quite honestly, it took a long time for Robbie's and Melanie's—that was my daughter-in-law—deaths to sink in because Anna was kidnapped at the same time."
"Kidnapped?" Alex's startled gaze moved slowly around the room.
"She was taken from her bed the night of the murder." Eleanor was watching Alex carefully. "Naturally, I've left the room exactly as it was that night. The only change I've made was to replace the crib with a child's bed, and now this full-sized Shaker.
"Although the police never found my granddaughter, I've always known Anna will return. I want her room to be waiting for her."
"It's a beautiful room," Alex murmured. "When I was little, I used to dream of a room like this."
"Of course you did." When Alex gave her a quick, puzzled glance, Eleanor hastily added, "Doesn't every little girl?"
"I think so."
Alex walked over to a glossy white bookshelf and ran her hands over the leather-bound classics—Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Robin Hood, Black Beauty, Treasure Island—which were far too advanced for the two-year-old child Anna Lord had been when she disappeared.
"Black Beauty was one of my favorite stories." Alex wondered if Anna's mother had read this book to her at bedtime, as her own mother had done.
"Anna loved horses." Eleanor's eyes misted at the memory. "I wanted to get her a pony for her third birthday, but Melanie thought she was too young. Of course, Papa put me on a horse before I could walk."
The brief flash of temper in Eleanor's eyes suggested that she was recalling the long-ago argument with her daughter-in-law. "My earliest memory is sitting in front of Papa on Moonglow—his favorite Thoroughbred from the family stables—feeling on top of the world."
Once again Alex noticed Eleanor's casual regard toward such vast family wealth. She'd tossed off the comment about the family stables with the same offhand attitude she'd mentioned the upstairs maid. When she'd been younger, during those years when her mother had struggled to keep a roof over their heads
and the wolf away from the door, there had been innumerable times when Alex had thought that if only they were rich, all their problems would be solved.
After watching some of Debord's customers, not to mention the chronically dissatisfied Miranda Deveraux, along with having a front-row seat for Sophie's bitterly fought divorce and, now, hearing of the tragedy in Eleanor Lord's privileged life, Alex considered that wealth was not all it was cracked up to be.
Oh, it could certainly buy a great many lovely things, such as this house and its exquisite furnishings. And it could ease a great many financial concerns of day-to-day living. But the one thing money couldn't buy was happiness.
Or, she considered, thinking of Zach and Miranda, love.
"Gracious," Eleanor said, breaking into Alex's thoughts with a soft, self-conscious laugh. "I certainly didn't mean to cast a pall over your first night here." She reached out, rubbing away the lines that thoughts of Zach and his wife had etched into Alex's forehead. The maternal gesture seemed perfectly normal.
"We'd better get downstairs," Eleanor suggested, "before Beatrice starts yelling at me for ruining her dinner."
"Beatrice is the cook," Alex guessed, beginning to get a handle on how things worked around this vast estate.
"That's right. And unfortunately, when God was passing out short fuses, Beatrice must have been first in line, then turned around and gone back for seconds.
"She has a temper that could blow us all off the face of the earth," Eleanor said conspiratorially as they descended the stairs. "But one taste of her heavenly crème brûlée and you'll understand why I've let her bully me all these years."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Although the food was as delicious as Eleanor had promised, Alex found dinner to be a decidedly strained affair. Averill's queries about her life, her family, her career, were couched politely enough, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling she was being cross-examined.
As for Zach, Alex doubted if he uttered two words during the entire meal. Miranda also remained silent, although it would have been impossible to miss the cold fury directed Zach's way. That they had quarreled recently was more than a little obvious.
Eleanor, on the other hand, was as charming as usual, entertaining Alex with stories of her colorful family.
Her father's family, Alex learned over a rich salmon bisque, had been the Philadelphia Longworths, business people, leading players in the world cotton market and patrons of the arts. One of Eleanor's Longworth ancestors had established the Longworth Philadelphia Trust Bank, a leading financier of the American Revolution. Another had been on the board of directors of the Pennsylvania Railroad, which, in the City of Brotherly Love, established one as an undisputed member of the city's aristocracy.
Over hearts-of-palm salad, Eleanor told Alex that her mother's family were New Yorkers, whose roots, like the Longworths, predated the revolution and whose forebears included a signer of the Declaration of Independence.
Eleanor had grown up in splendid luxury on a cotton plantation outside Atlanta, Georgia, where her father raised and brokered cotton. Clothes for the ladies of the house came from Christian Dior, Chanel and Madame Grés in Paris.
She attended Foxcroft, that very proper Virginia private school, where she achieved the polish required of a young lady of her station. Like so many of her equally privileged classmates, she summered in Europe with her grandparents. She made a stunning debut at her grandparents' home on Long Island, then was sent to Paris to be "finished."
She'd wed when she was twenty, wearing a wedding gown of beaded, handmade alenn lace—the same gown she was wearing in the painting that had so startled Alex—and carrying a white Bible that had been in the Longworth family since the 1600s.
"James's parents tragically went down on the Lusitania when he was a boy," Eleanor divulged over the main course, grilled pheasant with lingonberry sauce. "I've always thought that being orphaned helped my husband develop the independent streak that served him so well when he began the Lord's chain."
"Those must have been exciting times," Alex said.
"They were wonderful." Eleanor smiled reminiscently. "Why, when he decided to move to the Deep South shortly after our marriage, the Wall Street Journal declared the region hadn't seen such a sweeping campaign since Sherman marched through Georgia."
"And of course there's always the London Lord's," Miranda reminded her aunt. A bit testily, Alex thought.
"Of course," Eleanor said agreeably. She did not add that she'd always found Miranda's father lacking. Although James had defended his younger brother on numerous occasions, it had been obvious to Eleanor from the start that Lawrence did not possess the intelligence, vitality, or work ethic of his brother. Given the choice between reading a sales report from a regional manager or playing a set of tennis, Lawrence could always be found on the court.
After the dessert cups had been cleared—Eleanor hadn't exaggerated about the hot-tempered Beatrice's crème brûlée—the group moved into the library for brandy and coffee.
It was then that Miranda addressed Alex directly for the first time since she'd come downstairs with Eleanor. "From what Zach and Aunt Eleanor tell me, you're the quintessential workaholic, Alex."
Alex looked for the trap, but couldn't find it. "I like to keep busy."
"So I hear. Imagine working so hard that you'd give yourself pneumonia." She refilled her brandy snifter from a Waterford decanter. "How fortunate that Zachary was with you when you collapsed."
The insinuation hovered over the room, just waiting for Alex to pick up on it. "I was grateful for your husband's assistance."
"I'm sure you were." Miranda smiled first at Alex, then Zach, her eyes glittering with anticipation of impending violence, like a spectator at a prize fight. "My husband can be very helpful when he puts his mind to it."
Those dangerous eyes narrowed, giving Alex the feeling she'd just landed in the center of a very deadly bull's-eye.
"Tell me, dear," Miranda said in a silken voice that belied the malice in her gaze, "how do you make time for men in such a busy, allegedly fulfilling life?"
"I manage."
Actually she didn't. Not that there was a shortage of candidates. Actors, agents, heirs to old California fortunes, even a rising young culinary star, whose trendy new Beverly Hills restaurant had Hollywood insiders actually willing to stand in line for a table, had all repeatedly asked Alex out. But she wasn't interested in any of these contenders for her heart.
Because she'd given it to Zach on that magical star-kissed bayou night. And her feelings hadn't changed. She still found Zach fascinating; she still wanted him. He was still married.
"I have the most scintillating idea!" Clara, clad tonight in royal purple, clapped her pudgy hands. "Let's have a séance!"
"No!" Zach and Averill shouted in unison.
"I was speaking to Eleanor." Alex found Clara's waspish tone a direct contrast to her soft, pink features.
All eyes turned to their hostess, who, Alex thought, suddenly looked every day of her seventy-plus years.
"I think," Eleanor said slowly, "that perhaps Alexandra should be given time to settle in before we expose her to the supernatural, Clara, dear."
Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Zach and Averill visibly relax. "A séance sounds fascinating," she told Clara not quite truthfully. Although she didn't believe in ghosts, Alex was not all that eager to go dabbling in the afterlife. "Perhaps some other time."
Slightly mollified, Clara spent the next half hour regaling Alex with tales of supernatural manifestations, and although Alex had no desire to insult Eleanor's elderly friend, she was relieved when the dinner party finally broke up.
After extracting a promise from Alex to go sailing soon, Averill left. Zach was next, accompanied upstairs by Miranda who, after several glasses of brandy appeared none too steady on her feet.
Alex rose to go upstairs as well, pausing briefly to wish the two elderly women good-night and to give Eleanor a quick peck on th
e cheek. Although she realized such behavior was unprofessional, for some reason, in this house at this time, it seemed right.
As she entered the comfortable guest room, Alex realized she was exhausted. Her head ached and she felt both cold and hot at the same time, just as she had in Zach's office. Worried that she might be in danger of a relapse, she poured a glass of water from the crystal carafe that had appeared as if by magic on her bedside table, took two aspirins, then, on second thought, swallowed a third.
"All you need is a good night's sleep," she told herself as she slipped beneath the perfumed sheets.
Unfortunately sleep proved a frustratingly elusive target. Alex tossed and turned, twisting the Egyptian cotton sheets into a restless tangle. The house was dark and silent, with only the occasional creaks as it settled for the night, as old homes seem to do.
It was after two in the morning before she finally drifted off.
Sometime later, awareness filtered slowly into Alex's subconscious mind. Something feathered against her cheek. She groggily brushed it away.
"Go home," a low, deep voice intoned.
Murmuring a protest, Alex rolled over.
"You should not have come."
Alex was emerging from the depths of what she thought to be a dream. The room had gone cold. Alex had curled up in a tight ball in an attempt to keep warm. She felt rather than saw the movement above her. She blinked slowly, trying to focus in the darkness. A strangely familiar, musty scent teased her nostrils.
A gauzy figure was standing over her. As she watched, momentarily transfixed, it began to lower a fluffy down pillow over her face.
She came to full alertness as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown on her. Arms flailing, she struck out wildly at the white-draped figure. Her bloodcurdling screams awakened the entire household.
They all rushed in—Eleanor, Clara, Zach and Miranda—and found her standing beside the bed, shaking like a leaf.
"Alex?" Although her own eyes were wide with lingering fright from being roused so abruptly, Eleanor placed a calming hand on Alex's shoulder. Alex flinched. "What's wrong?"