by Toombs, Jane
Ginetha gave me the coral necklace last Christmas, Martha thought. She's the only real friend I've ever had. A good guess on Josephine's part—but only a guess, of course.
“I like to wear the necklace,” she began, “but....”
“But you don't believe any of the rest of it—you think I’m crazy!”
“Because I don't believe anything you say to me doesn't make you crazy,” Martha said. “I'm not—not versed in the occult and can't accept what you're telling me. Nothing more.”
“Jules told you to watch me, I know he did. But I didn't try to kill myself. Sometimes I feel there's no use in living, but I'll wait for my death, not leap to meet it. I did almost die three times in the past year, that much is true.”
“I—he merely told me I was to be your companion.”
Josephine stared at her, not moving.
Martha tentatively extended a hand. “I wouldn't know how to be a—a warden, Josephine. It's presumptuous to say I'll be a friend, but I'll try to be a friendly companion.”
When Josephine still made no move, Martha touched her arm gently, then withdrew her hand.
After a moment Josephine said, “I have to change for dinner.” She nodded at Martha's bed, where the blue dress lay. “I see someone filled you in about Aunt Natalie.”
“I’m afraid I didn't think of dressing for dinner when I packed,” Martha said.
“Who does anymore? At least not all the time. But at Black Tor we might as well be back in the nineteenth century, as far as Natalie's notions go. You'll see.” Josephine started for the door.
“Will you come back and show me where we're to dine? I'm not too sure of where I am in this house yet.”
Josephine half-smiled. “You never will be, either. “I’m not and I’ve lived here most of my life. But I’ll show you where the dining room is, anyway. My bedroom is next to yours.” she gestured.
A half-hour later, Josephine reappeared, wearing an ecru muslin dress that fell to the floor. Handmade lace frothed across the bodice and decorated the sleeves. Very simple, but Martha's practiced eye told her the dress was expensive.
She regretted that she hadn't chosen her own long dress, and thought wistfully of the clothes she'd rammed into boxes and put in storage with her other belongings when Ginetha descended on her in L.A. and insisted on helping her move out of the apartment and the lease money be damned. She could use some of those clothes at Black Tor.
As Martha and Josephine went into the corridor they passed a small white dog, and Martha almost bent to pet it, before she realized it was another stuffed pet.
“These halls are so gloomy,” Josephine said. “All this dark paneling. The Victorians certainly loved wood—the darker the better.”
Martha ran her fingers along the polished satiny panels. “But beautiful.”
“I suppose so.” Josephine didn't sound convinced. “I'll take you up to the tower tomorrow. Grandpa went wild with windows there, and it's like being in a different place, another house entirely.”
Martha wondered dryly if the window Josephine had shattered would be repaired by then. Still, Josephine had apologized. But such a violent reaction! And she could have hurt someone.
As they descended the wide curving staircase, Martha thought the bold black and white of the killer whale was no less eye-catching from this angle. What a job to mount such a huge display!
“You're looking at Orcinus orca.” Josephine's hand touched her temple. “I don't have the mark—it's usually the men who do.”
Martha realized that Josephine was talking about the white streak in the Garrards' hair. “Sarah has one,” she said.
“Oh, Sarah....”
“She's a Garrard isn't she?”
“I'm told so. Everyone is quite mysterious, trying to make you think that asking is in bad taste. Someone's by-blow, I suppose.”
Martha frowned. Was Josephine telling her she didn't know where Sarah came from?
“Your brother has never married?”
“Jules?” Josephine glanced at Martha. “Oh, yes, years ago. She...died. I've often thought Sarah might be Jules's bastard. But he never lets on.” Josephine spoke casually, as though the subject were not very interesting. But, of course, if Sarah was six years old, everyone in the house must be used to her.
“Brace yourself,” Josephine said as they crossed the foyer and entered a short hall. “Sherry with Aunt Natalie is out of another world.”
Was this once the drawing room? Martha wondered as they came into a room with wainscoting lightened by pale yellow paper with a textured design. A Siamese cat crouched on the fireplace mantel, but Martha knew by now it wouldn't be a live cat.
Josephine led her to the sofa, where a large woman sat alone. Clearly in her sixties, she was clad in regal purple. “ This is Martha Jamison, Aunt Natalie,” Josephine said.
For a moment Martha was overwhelmed by the woman's size and the piercing glare of the very dark eyes that looked into hers.
“Well, Miss Jamison. And do you consider yourself capable?”
Martha straightened her shoulders. Natalie Drew could be no more formidable than some of the charge nurses she'd encountered in the past. “How do you do, Mrs. Drew?” she replied. “I'm sure Mr. Garrard has discussed my credentials with you.”
Natalie pressed her lips together. “Pieces of paper mean nothing.”
“What I've done to earn those pieces of paper are my credentials, Mrs. Drew.”
“Perhaps. We'll see.”
“Would you care for some sherry?” Charn stood at her elbow, proffering a wineglass.
“Thank you.” Martha took the thin-stemmed glass.
“Don't monopolize the girl, Aunt Nat,” Charn said. “First nurse we've ever gotten in here under a hundred.”
To Martha's surprise, Natalie gave Charn a wintry smile.
“Very well. Miss Jamison and I will speak another time.''
Martha moved away with alacrity, evading Cham Charn 's attempt to pin her in a small alcove to the left of the beige marble fireplace. A gray-haired woman, tall and thin, wearing pince-nez, appeared in the doorway. She blinked at Martha in surprise.
“This is our new nurse, Louella,” Charn said. “The wheel's finally turned up a winner.”
Louella smiled nervously and darted past them before Martha could properly introduce herself. There was no sign of Jules or of Matthew Drew. Josephine had disappeared. Martha sipped at her sherry.
“Your freckles are charming,” Charn said. “They give you a golden look. ” ''
Martha smiled politely. When she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, she was surprised to find him staring over her head. She turned and saw a short muscular man who glanced at her as he left the room. A servant?
Jules came in.
A bell tinkled and Natalie rose. Charn immediately left Martha to give his arm to her. Jules nodded at Martha but didn't offer his arm. She followed him across the short hall to the dining room.
Warm wood paneled the room entirely—floors, walls and ceiling. A cream-colored Oriental rug covered part of the parquet flooring, and portraits ringed the walls. The table was designed to seat at least fourteen and was now draped in immaculate white linen. Crystal water goblets sparkled in the light from an ornate chandelier of brass and cut glass.
Jules seated Martha, then moved quickly to help Louella into her chair. Charn was doing the same for Natalie when Josephine slipped into the room, her cheeks flushed. She slid into her chair and smoothed her hair with a quick motion. Everyone was seated when a white-haired man joined them.
He looks like the pictures I've seen of Harry Truman, Martha thought, same size and everything. She glanced from him to Natalie. Was this Matthew Drew? Younger and smaller than his wife, if so.
Jules sat at the head of the table, Natalie to his right, Matthew Drew to his left. Martha was next, then Josephine. Charn sat by Natalie, then came Louella.
Martha found herself directly across the table from Charn. He grinned at he
r and winked, and she smiled, then looked away, up at the portraits. She certainly didn't want Charn to think she was interested in him. The last thing she wanted was to become involved with a man in a household where she was a paid employee. It hadn't been appropriate in the age when the house had been built, and it wasn't appropriate now.
She found herself gazing at the face she'd seen in her dreams—a painting of a man's face, his black, arrogantly tilted beard streaked with white, his dark hair showing the Garrard mark. She stared, fascinated.
“What?” She'd alerted Charn, who turned in his chair to see what she was looking at. “Oh, that's old Abel. Quite a lad.”
But how could she have dreamed of a man she'd never met, a man who'd been dead for years? Once more she seemed to see the gray sea in back of the face.
Then Natalie spoke, and the illusion faded. “We do not serve wine with our meals, Miss Jamison. I make this apologia should you be surprised at the omission. We are not teetotalers, but wine has never been served at a Garrard table.”
Martha saw that she was not expected to comment.
The meal was excellent and deftly served by Ruth and an elderly manservant, whom Jules called Francis. Martha enjoyed the poached salmon despite the fact that she'd been gorging herself on salmon ever since she'd gotten to Seattle. She hadn't realized that fresh-caught fish could be so delicious. In Flagstaff, the only salmon she'd ever had was canned. And Southern California wasn't great salmon country, either.
Martha turned to Josephine. “I really like your salmon.”
Josephine seemed dazed, and she'd hardly eaten anything. “What? Oh, salmon.”
What was the matter with her? She'd been alert and talkative earlier. Where had she gone after introducing Martha to Aunt Natalie? Unease prickled along Martha's nerves. She was supposed to be looking after Josephine. She thought of Josephine's flushed face. Was she taking some drug? Was this at the root of her problems? Was drug over dosage what had brought her close to death those three times?
The eyes of the portrait seemed to stare at Martha. Abel Garrard's eyes. Hastily she looked away and met the nearly identical gaze of his grandson, Jules. If Jules grew a beard, would it be white streaked?
Unnerved, she turned her face toward Josephine again. The girl's head was bent to look at something in her lap. Martha glanced down and caught a glimpse of bold green handwriting. “Dear Jo,” she read, before Josephine crumpled the letter in her hand and shifted her position in the chair.
“Jo”? Sarah's words came back to her: “Her special name. I'm the only one who can ever call her that now.”
What did the letter mean, then—someone from the past? What was Josephine's past?
The manservant, Francis, came into the dining room and spoke into Jules's ear. Martha saw Jules frown, then look her way. She tensed.
“You have a phone call, Martha,” he said.
Chapter Four
The telephone was shut away in what amounted to a deluxe closet near the foyer.
“Martha?”
Not Ginetha's voice—a man's, vaguely familiar.
“I this—this isn't Bran?”
“You sound shocked.”
“But I—how did you know where I was?”
“I saw you get into that Rolls with the chauffeur and I asked a local, who told me who the car belonged to.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose you're wondering why I called.”
“Yes. I was at dinner.”
“I thought that maybe since you're staying on in Victoria—you are, aren't you?—you might like to sightsee with me sometime.”
I didn't encourage him—I know I didn't, she told herself.
“And another thing,” Bran went on. “I'll be coming to the house tomorrow. I—”
“Oh, no, I don't think you should do that. I've just—”
“Wait. I have business with Mr. Garrard. It's quite a coincidence that you're staying there, and so I thought I'd call tonight—otherwise I probably wouldn't see you when I came.”
“You won't, anyway,” Martha said. “I'm—I work here. I'm not a guest.”
“You work there?”
“Yes. I'm a nurse. Now, Bran, please, I must get back to the table. What will my employer think of—”
“A nurse!” Bran exclaimed, cutting her short.
“What's the matter with that?”
“Why, nothing. Only—I always think of nurses as granite blocks of authority. You're far too pretty to—”
“Don't be a chauvinist. Really, Bran, I can't—”
“You must be taking care of old Mr. Garrard.”
“No, as a matter of fact I'm not. Goodbye, Bran.”
“Wait. I really woulde like to see you again.”
He was persistent, so he'd probably phone again. She didn't even know how Jules felt about her receiving personal calls on his time.
“Why don't you write me a note to let me know where you're staying,” she said. “I could arrange to call you then if I have some free time. I really must hang up now, Bran. Goodbye.” She set down the phone despite his protest.
Martha saw Natalie climbing the stairs as she came out of the alcove. Jules crossed the foyer, passing her. Obviously the family was no longer at dinner.
“Everything all right?” Jules asked.
“The call was personal, not necessary,” she said. “I'm sorry. I'll try to see it doesn't happen again.”
“Francis mentioned it was a local call,” Jules said. “I didn't realize you knew anyone in Victoria.”
“I don't—not really. But—well, there was someone on the ferry, and he found out where I was going.” Damn Bran for his persistence!
“Oh—a young man.
She might as well tell Jules everything Bran had said; after all, he'd be there in person the following day, and she wouldn't put it past him to ask to see her. “I didn't expect him to call,” she said. “But he—his name is Branwell Lowrey, and apparently he'll be seeing you on business tomorrow.”
Jules frowned, then nodded. “Oh, yes. The museum, of course.”
“He didn't realize I was here as an employee. I—we only had an impersonal conversation on the boat. I don't know why—” She paused, annoyed and embarrassed at her position.
Jules smiled at her. “Don't be too hard on Dr. Lowrey, Martha. You're a most attractive young woman, and I certainly don't expect you to shut yourself away with Josephine seven days a week. We'll do something about arranging your free time tomorrow.” He moved away.
“Dr.” Lowrey? she mused as she started up the stairs. Bran, a doctor? Of what? Jules had mentioned a museum. Here she'd thought Bran was a carefree backpacker…
And Jules considered her attractive. She smiled to herself.
Martha hesitated in the corridor outside her room. Should she tap at Josephine's door? How close a supervision did Jules expect? She really must insist on talking to Josephine's doctor soon, because apparently no one there was going to tell her the exact nature of the girl's problem. She rapped lightly. “Josephine?”
There was a click. Had the door been locked? Was a lock wise with someone who may have tried to kill herself? Then the door opened. Josephine's face was pale and her eyes were haunted.
“Do you feel ill?” Martha asked.
“Martha—” Josephine stepped back and motioned her in, closing and, yes, locking the door behind her. “Oh, Martha, I wish I could trust you.”
“Trust me?”
“But you'll tell Jules, won't you? Like those others reported everything to Aunt Natalie. And Jules is against me like all the rest.”
“I might not have to tell Jules. However, I am going to talk to your doctor, and I don't think I should keep anything from him.”
To her surprise, Josephine gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, Dr. Marston. I don't think you'd need to tell him, not at all. It's not—not about the time I was so—so sick. This is from before. But I'm afraid, I don't understand and there's no one I can trust. Except—” Her
large yellow eyes stared at Martha. “They told you, didn't they? That I was somewhere else when I was seventeen. And eighteen. I was there two years. And I—just don't remember about that time. The two years are all blurred, fogged over.”
“But that's not what frightens you now?”
Josephine shook her head. “You saw that note at the table, didn't you? Did you tell?”
Martha remembered the green writing. “'Dear Jo,” she said aloud. “No, I didn't say anything about it. Why should I?”
“You're here as a spy, you know. Didn't Jules tell you?”
“I'm here as a companion. I'm a nurse, not a spy, Josephine.”
“The note is from someone. Oh, Martha, he's dead. How can he write me a letter? Am I going mad, really mad? I'm so afraid.”
“Where did the note come from? The mail?”
“I never get mail—they'd open it if I did. No, Sarah motioned me out of the parlor before dinner and slipped the note into my hand. I asked her where she got it, and she said that Bill Wong—he's one of the gardeners—gave the envelope to her when she was playing outside and told her it was for Miss Josephine.”
“It's not from this—Bill Wong?”
“Oh, no.”
“Would you let me read it?”
Josephine opened a book lying on her bedside stand and extracted a crumpled piece of paper.
“Dear Jo,” Martha read in the bold green handwriting. “I haven't forgotten. Love, Diego.”
“Diego?” she asked Josephine.
“I called him that. He called me 'Jo.' I never knew his name. He didn't know mine.” Josephine sat on her bed, staring down at the paper Martha had returned to her. “I was sixteen, but he didn't know that, either, because I told him I was older. We truly loved each other, but he died— he drowned when the boat foundered. How can he write me now?”
“He drowned when you were sixteen?”
Tears filled Josephine's eyes. “Yes. I went to the docks to see him, and I found out his boat—he worked on a salmon boat.” She began to cry.
Martha sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. Johann's dead, too, she thought, but my tears are all shed... they were shed long before his death.