by Toombs, Jane
“Did your grandfather harpoon the killer whale I saw?”
“No. Actually, the family legend is that he tried to save the whale, which had been wounded somehow. But it died, and so he had it hauled to the taxidermist. Grandpa saw himself and the orca as blood brothers.”
“Orca?”
“Scientific name. I've done some research on killer whales—-a family interest, you might say.”
Martha thought of the mounted animal in the foyer. Black and white, a striking contrast, like Jules's hair. Jules was young—not over forty, certainly. She remembered white streaks in the hair as being hereditary. Had Abel Garrard had the trait, as well? Is that why the orca had fascinated him?
Jules offered her a lyre back chair near a rosewood desk. He then sat behind the desk, and she was reminded that this was an interview. For a few moments Jules had made her forget that he was her prospective employer.
“May I call you Martha?” he asked.
“Please.”
“You certainly seem to have every qualification to be Josephine's companion,” he said.
“I haven't worked in four years,” she said. “I—”
He waved his hand. “I'm pleased to have someone closer to her age applying. Aunt Natalie composed the advertisement, hoping, no doubt, for another of the elderly retirees we've had lately. I've tried to tell Natalie she's wrong—” Jules broke off and shrugged.
“The ad did say 'mature,” Martha began. “But as I am twenty-eight, I thought—”
“I have no doubt you’re sufficiently mature,” Jules told her, smiling. For the first time his eyes seemed to lighten.
Does he find me attractive? Martha wondered. She was very aware of his gaze. She was also aware of him as a man. Surprised and disconcerted at her response to him, she looked down at her hands.
“It's only fair that you meet Josephine before you decide to stay with us,” Jules said.
The repetition of Josephine's name brought back the crash of breaking glass and the stuffed cat landing at her feet. Martha straightened and met Jules's eyes. “Why do you need a psychiatric nurse as her companion?” she asked bluntly.
“Josephine is...unusual,” Jules said slowly. “I prefer to have you meet her before I say more.” He glanced at his watch. “ Have you had lunch?”
“I ate on the boat.”
He nodded and got up. As Martha started to rise to her feet, he motioned for her to stay seated. Then he went to the door and opened it.
A tall slender girl stood there, her curly dark hair falling past her shoulders. She had no streak of white. As she came into the room, Martha saw that her eyes were sherry yellow. She wore jeans and a gray sweat shirt. Except that she was prettier, she looked much like the backpackers Martha had seen on the ferry.
“This is Josephine,” Jules said. “She's fond of listening outside closed doors.”
The girl made a face at him. Then her eyes flicked back to Martha.
“This is Martha Jamison, Josephine,” Jules said. “As you can see, you were quite wrong in throwing the cat from the tower to frighten her.”
“I thought you'd be old,” Josephine told Martha. “You're little, so I thought you were one of the tiny wizened kind, and they're even worse than the fat jolly ones.”
“How old are you, Josephine?” Martha asked, deciding to ignore the tower episode.
“I’ll be twenty-three next month,” Josephine replied. “Then I get half—don't I, Jules?”
“Not until your father dies,” a man's voice interjected. As he spoke, he came into the room and bowed slightly toward Martha. “Good afternoon, Miss Jamison,” he said, then turned to Josephine. “If you'd wear your glasses, you'd know a pretty woman from an old lady, Josie my girl.”
“I don't need glasses,” Josephine said. “And don't call me 'Josie.' I was at the top of the tower, looking down. How could I tell? Besides, nobody young ever came before.” She smiled at Martha, and her smile was engaging. “If I have to have someone stay with me, I'd just as soon it was you.”
“This intruder is our cousin, Charn Wexler,” Jules said.
Both Josephine and Jules had disregarded Charn's entering words. Had he meant them as a joke? If so, it was a joke in very bad taste.
“Hello,” Martha said. If Charn was “our” cousin, were Jules and Josephine brother and sister? She glanced from one to the other.
“Josephine is my half sister,” Jules said, as if reading her mind.
“Daddy wore out two wives,” Josephine explained.
Martha blinked, trying to assimilate all the information. Her quick assessment of Josephine revealed no evidence of mental illness. Still, such evidence was often concealed, only to emerge when least expected.
“Why don't you two get out so Martha and I can discuss her staying here,” Jules suggested.
“I'll bet you were scared, weren't you?” Josephine said to Martha. “You didn't scream or faint or anything, but—”
“I was startled,” Martha admitted. “And horrified, since I thought the cat was alive.”
“Oh, I wouldn't hurt a real cat,” Josephine said, instantly sounding shocked.
“Come on, Josephine,” Charn Wexler began, shepherding her toward the door. “You'll frighten Martha off yet.”
“We've a rather informal household,” Jules commented when the door was shut once more. “Except for Aunt Natalie, of course. She disapproves of us all, including father.”
“Your cousin doesn't resemble you or Josephine,” Martha noted.
“Charn belongs to the Wexler branch--heavy on Teutonic fairness, with no suggestion of Indian blood such as the Garrards carry. You'd never think Charn was one-sixteenth Indian. As for you, Martha, based on your name and your strawberry-blond hair—”
He broke off, and she thought for a moment he was going to finger a curl that had drifted out of her chignon. Martha quivered as though he had actually touched her. “I'd say you were a Scot,” Jules finished.
She nodded. His irises were so dark a brown they appeared black. She could hardly see the pupils. She wondered irrelevantly if the orca had black eyes.
“Victoria will like that,” Jules went on. “Most of the original settlers here were Scots. Many took Indian wives, as did my ancestor, who happened to be French. I'll show you the old graveyard sometime. The names are interesting.”
Martha closed her eyes momentarily and turned away from Jules. She'd tried to have Johann cremated, but that had precipitated even more publicity, and at last she'd given up his body to the others, as she should have given up Johann earlier. The funeral had been a public horror.
“You do intend to stay?” Jules asked. “Obviously Josephine accepts you. She liked none of the others.”
“Others?”
Jules sighed. “I'm afraid there's been a parade of companions and would-be companions in and out of the house for the past few years. Aunt Natalie would insist on older women, and Josephine—well, you heard her.”
“You've never had a younger woman apply?”
Jules hesitated. “You see, Natalie did the interviewing until her illness. She... eliminated anyone under fifty.”
“You haven't told me why Josephine needs a companion.”
“She's made three suicide attempts in the past year. Then there's the occult fixation, of course. But she's not a psychotic. Her behavior is sometimes—bizarre, though usually rational in terms of her beliefs.”
Martha didn't say anything. Any psychotic behavior could be called normal if judged on the basis of the insane individual's beliefs.
“Josephine leads a rather restricted life at present. She needs someone who understands her, someone versed in psychiatry. And, I've felt, someone near her in age. I do hope you'll stay with her.”
What was there to return to if she didn't stay? Martha asked herself. Whatever abnormalities Josephine might later display, on the surface she seemed only a somewhat immature young woman. Why not remain here at Black Tor and try to help her? “What
about Josephine's medical care?” she inquired. “You do have a doctor seeing her?”
“A psychiatrist, Dr. Louis Marston. Naturally you'll be talking to him later on.”
Martha nodded. “I’d like to stay.”
Jules touched her arm lightly. “I know you'll be good for Josephine.”
Again Martha was terribly aware of his nearness. “Do—are you—who else lives here?” she asked, hating herself for the awkwardness of the question. If he had a wife, what would she do—turn off her reaction? Turn off a reaction she had no control over? She remembered her total response to Johann, and the memory frightened her. Is that the only way she could react to a man—all or nothing? She eyed Jules warily.
“Matthew—he's Natalie's husband. She's my father's sister, now Natalie Drew. My father's an invalid. He'd enjoy having you around if he felt better—he always had an eye for a pretty girl. Charn, of course, and another cousin, an elderly one from my mother's family—Louella Gallion. And Charn's sister, Cathleen. She's over in the States at present, but she'll be returning. An artist of sorts, our Cathleen. Very mod.”
No wife.
“Do you have a family nearby?” Jules asked.
“No. And that reminds me—I do have a friend in Seattle. You wrote me at her address. She seemed to think I'd have a problem working in Canada. Is there anything special I should do?”
“There's nothing you need do. As a private citizen I can hire anyone I choose. I don't know how it would be if you wanted to work as a nurse at a hospital here—perhaps your friend is right. But in this case…” He shrugged. “I'll see to any problems relating to your continued stay in Canada.”
All at once she felt far from home. Home? she asked herself. You have no home. Why not Canada?
“Your parents aren't living?” Jules wanted to know.
Martha shook her head. She'd been a late-in-life only child, her father had passed away when she was in high school and her mother, thank God, had died before the horror of Johann's death.
“You will, of course, be dining with us,” Jules said.
She stared at him in surprise before she realized there'd be servants in a house this size and she wasn't to eat with them. Not only Henry, but a cook, maids and likely a housekeeper, since Jules wasn't married. Unless Natalie acted as such. Martha felt alien. She'd had plenty of money, she and Johann, but they'd lived simply in a condominium apartment with a cleaning woman two days a week. This rambling house had stood there since 1880 and must require a small army of servants to keep up.
“I'll ask Ruth to show you to your room.” Jules touched a small panel on the wall and after a moment spoke into it. “She'll meet you in the foyer,” he finished.
Ruth was a middle-aged woman who wore a gray uniform with a white apron. Martha, astonished, followed her up the curving staircase. She'd had no idea maids still wore uniforms.
“The aquamarine room will be yours, miss,” Ruth told her, indicating an open door off the second-floor hallway.
Martha was relieved to find that the only stuffed animal in the bedroom was a yellow canary in a gilt cage. The room was furnished with heavy oak pieces and decorated in aquamarine. The effect was quite charming, with the delicate color giving a lift to the furniture. Tall narrow windows overlooked a formal garden, and Martha decided she faced out onto what might be called the front yard in a less pretentious home.
“Shall I unpack for you, miss?” Ruth asked, and Martha noticed that her suitcases were at the foot of the bed.
“Thank you, I'll take care of that.”
Ruth turned to leave, hesitated, then said, “Mrs. Drew won't like your pants at the dinner table, miss.”
“What? Oh—thanks for telling me, Ruth.” As the maid went out, Martha frantically reviewed her wardrobe. She had a long dress that would do, she thought, but she hesitated to wear it the first night at Black Tor. Otherwise, she'd packed almost all casual clothes—pants, jeans, one uniform—just in case—and a dress that might be all right for shopping but might not do for the dinner table. Evidently at Black Tor one dressed for dinner, despite Jules's claim that the household was informal.
Martha unpacked, then glanced at her watch in dismay. Only three o'clock. What was she to do until dinner was served? Should she try to find Josephine? Thinking of the rambling house, she concluded that she probably couldn't find her. She sighed and sat on the bed, then finally stretched out on top of the coverlet.
Had she acted impulsively? Was her attraction to Jules what had influenced her to take the job despite its inauspicious beginning with the stuffed cat? She shook her head. Stuffed animals. The killer whale in the foyer, the black-and-white motif of the Garrards'—
Martha drifted. There was the sullen sea, not quite an ocean though the water was salt. Gray. Then the face, bearded, a black beard, curly, arrogant. No one she knew, and yet a haunting familiarity. A slash of white through the beard, like the streak in Jules's hair. Fear gripped Martha. She was unable to breathe, to speak. A weight sat on her chest.
“Hello.”
She couldn't respond.
“Are you asleep?”
Martha opened her eyes and gazed into a childish face inches from her own. Hazel eyes stared into hers. She shook her head in confusion and tried to sit up.
Chapter Three
“You’re not an old lady,” the little girl said.
Martha managed to shift the child's weight off her chest and sit up. She looked at the girl and was startled. A white wing of hair streaked the otherwise black curls.
“My name's Sarah. Yours is Martha, isn't it?”
Martha nodded, still examining the girl with interest. Whose child was she? Jules hadn't mentioned her. Obviously she was a Garrard. “How old are you, Sarah?” she inquired.
“I'm six.” The hazel eyes regarded Martha thoughtfully. “I'm not supposed to ask you. Aunt Natalie says it's rude after you get grown up. ”
“Well, I don't mind telling you—I'm twenty-eight.”
“Will I have to call you 'miss'? When Miss Eccles was here, she got mad if I didn't. Her first name was Clara, but hardly anyone could call her that.”
“You may call me 'Martha.'”
Sarah smiled. “Miss Eccles was real old and her knees used to hurt and she couldn't climb up the stairs very good and Jo and me used to laugh but Aunt Natalie said that wasn't nice.”
“Josephine?”
“I call her Jo, but no one else can. She says that's her special name. I'm the only one who can ever call her that now.”
“So you and Josephine are friends?”
“Sometimes. When she isn't mad at me. She gets mad easy. Are you going to get dressed up for dinner?”
Martha glanced at her watch. “Yes, I’d better change.”
Sarah trailed her to the closet and watched while she extracted a simple blue sheath, the only street-length dress she'd brought. “I like blue,” Sarah said. “Your eyes are pretty.”
“Thank you. I think you're pretty, too. Ragged jeans and all.”
Sarah grinned, her eyes lighting up. For a second Martha caught a fleeting resemblance to—whom? The cousin she'd met downstairs? But she couldn't pin it down, and then the feeling was gone.
“I don't get to eat in the dining room yet because Uncle Jules says children aren't civilized until they're twelve or older.”
“He's your uncle?”
Sarah shrugged. “Aunt Natalie makes me call everyone 'aunt' or 'uncle.' She gets real mad if I forget. But I still say Jo when Aunt Natalie isn't there. She'll probably make me call you miss.”
‘Miss’ because I'm not family, just a servant, Martha thought. No ‘Aunt Martha,’ for a servant. “It's 'Miss Jamison,' in case you have to,” Martha told Sarah.
“You're nice. Will you be my friend?”
“I'd like to be friends.” Who was this little girl who apparently didn't have a father or mother within the family here at Black Tor?
Martha found her necklace of silver and unpolished c
oral to wear with her blue sheath. This was as much as she could manage toward dressing up.
“Jo's coming,” Sarah said.
Several minutes passed before there was a token knock at the door and Josephine pushed it open. Sarah must have unusually keen hearing.
“I see you've met Sarah,” Josephine said. She looked at the little girl. “You'd better scoot.” Sarah went out without another word.
“She can be a nuisance,” Josephine said. “But she's lonely.”
“Doesn't she go to school?”
“No.” Josephine frowned. “Cousin Louella acts as Sarah's tutor because she was a teacher before she came to live at Black Tor. But Louella's another old woman. This house reeks of age and death. Sometimes I can hardly stand it.” She hit the gilt cage, and the canary swung back and forth crazily.
Martha said nothing.
“Look—about the tower. I—I really didn't know you weren't another of them—those grim old wardens Aunt Natalie's been foisting on me. I glanced out and saw Henry help you from the car and I just—well, I had to do something or burst. Did you ever feel you were coming to pieces, fragments showering around and about so that you'd never find them all and be whole again?”
“Yes,” “Martha said.
Josephine had been facing away from her, gazing out the window, but she swung around and faced Martha.
“You mean that, don't you?” She sighed. “Maybe you can understand, then.” She moved closer to Martha. “Did Jules tell you about me? Did he tell you I was crazy because I believe in signs and omens? Did he tell you I tried to kill myself?”
“Well—not exactly like that.”
Josephine turned her head and saw the silver-and-coral necklace on the dressing table. Picking it up, she ran the necklace through her fingers, “Coral is of the sea, and the sea is lucky for you,” she intoned, her dark eyes fixed on Martha's. “But not for me. Death waits for me there somehow, someday.”
Martha swallowed, willing herself not to show any emotion, though the words made her spine tingle.
“This necklace will act as an amulet for you because of your affinity for the sea,” Josephine went on, “and also because a friend gave it to you. A gift is always more potent than what we buy for ourselves.”