by Toombs, Jane
“We'd better go up there,” Jules stated.
“Why not let me go alone?” Martha asked.
Jules stared at her for a moment.
“What good am I to you if you won't allow me any responsibility?” she asked.
“I wish I could be—sure of you,” he said.
“I think you should stay away from Josephine for the rest of the day,” Martha told him. “You might provoke her where I wouldn't, since she has nothing to prove to me.”
Jules sighed. “You may be right.” His eyes hadn't left hers, and she felt almost mesmerized by his gaze. Such dark eyes, like the magic fairy-tale pool in the woodland, that dark bottomless pool luring the unwary to enchantment and death...
Martha straightened her shoulders and turned away from Jules. “How do I climb to the tower?” she asked.
The door was down the hall from Josephine's room. Jules opened it. A spiral staircase wound up to another level between walls of dark wood paneling. Two small round windows of stained glass cast an amber gloom. She paused for a moment.
Jules must have noticed, because he said, “I loved the tower when I was young. Now…” He shrugged. “But Josephine clings to being a child. ” He took Martha's arm and led her to the spiral steps. The door closed behind them. It was like being in a topaz cave. Jules pointed upward. “You won't find her on the next level— there's a door to the attics there—but don't stop climbing until you reach the top.” His voice was low.
Martha nodded, somewhat intimidated by the prospect of a two-story climb up this twilight tower toward her enigmatic charge. She put her foot on the first step.
“Martha.” Jules's voice was soft.
She looked at him.
“Forgive my suspicious nature,” he said. His fingers brushed along her cheek. Then he turned and went out of the tower.
Martha began to climb, firmly pushing away the excitement of his touch. She came through the center opening into the second level and noticed two diamond-shaped windows where light filtered through green glass. A door was set into the wall on her left. She resumed the climb, thinking it was like being underwater.
Finding the notion unpleasant, she pushed it away. Her breathing quickened with the exertion of the climb and with the feeling of not being able to draw enough air into her lungs. She poked her head above the third-level platform with considerable relief. The first thing she saw was Josephine's back.
“I hope he didn't follow you,” Josephine said, not turning.
“No, I'm alone.” Martha stepped out onto the floor.
The tower had sixteen windows, two in each of the eight sides. All were intact; the broken one had been replaced. Martha remembered the pointed roof and the killer whale on the rod at the peak.
Josephine stood looking out at the water. Martha moved up beside her. “He's not down there listening?” Josephine spoke in a half whisper .
“No.”
Window seats with red and pink velveteen pads circled the tower. Josephine sat down and looked at Martha.
“I saw Diego,” she said. “In town. He went by the store and didn't see me, and I didn't even think—I just ran to him.”
“What happened?”
Josephine glanced down at her hands, then up through her lashes at Martha. “He said not to tell anyone. He said he'd get in touch. He said—wait.” Josephine put her fingers on Martha's arm. “Please don't tell Jules. Or Dr. Marston.”
“But why can't Diego come to the house and call on you like any friend of yours? Why must he--?”
Josephine gripped Martha's arm, her fingers digging in. “They wouldn't let him see me. They turned the girls I used to know away. I sat here in the tower and saw them leave. They don't want me to have daddy's money—they want me to die.”
“Who?”
“Jules. Aunt Natalie.”
A persecution complex, the doctor had said. Martha watched Josephine.
“Oh, you don't believe me, I can tell. You talked to Dr. Marston today, and he told you I really did try to kill myself. But I didn't. I don't want to die.”
“Maybe with the drugs you were taking, you—”
“I don't take drugs anymore. Dr. Marston got me to stop, and when I did I could think better. And I knew I didn't dare take barbs again because someone was after me. I didn't dream I was pushed off the cliff—I really was. Oh, I know he told you about the times I overdosed. Only I didn't. Someone gave me the pills. In something I ate or drank. I'm careful now. Please believe me, Martha. I know you can't be a spy for Aunt Natalie, because she's angry about you being here. And I can tell you don't know Jules very well—besides, he watches you. So I think I can trust you. There's no one else to trust except Sarah, and she's just a little girl.”
“I won't mention Diego unless I think he's going to cause trouble,” Martha told her. “But you're sure it was Diego?”
“He looks older—but I'd know him anywhere. Oh, Martha…” Josephine smiled slowly, her face radiant.
Martha, seeing the vulnerability in her face, thought of Josephine's immaturity. I'll keep her safe, she vowed. This Diego, whoever he is, will answer to me. “I want to meet Diego,” Martha said.
“All right,” Josephine answered dreamily. “You'll see how wonderful he is. And you can help us. Before, I thought I had to live without Diego, and I was trying. If I hadn't lost those two years, maybe it wouldn't have been so hard, I would have had two more years of trying. I was even beginning to forget a little and see that other men were attractive.”
What other men? Martha wondered. When did Josephine see any other men except the ones in the house?
“I dreamed about Cathleen last night,” Josephine said. “When Cathleen's here, there're parties and people come to Black Tor and everyone laughs more. Even Jules.”
Cathleen? Another cousin. Wasn't she—Charn's sister?
“Only my dream was strange,” Josephine went on. “There was a fire and a man dressed in a black robe, and you were there” Josephine shook her head. “I didn't like the dream. Why couldn't I have dreamed of Diego, instead?”
“You'll let me know when you hear from him again?” Martha asked.
“Yes.”
“Shall we go downstairs now?”
“Don't you like the tower, Martha?”
“No. ” As she stood looking out the windows, Martha saw men working among the shrubbery and Henry polishing the Rolls near an outbuilding she thought must be the garage. Boats dotted the blue water, and she could see the mountains on the mainland. “But I admit the view is spectacular,” she added.
“I see everything,” Josephine told her. “No one knows how much I see from the tower.” She stood up beside Martha.
An open-topped red sports car rushed up the drive and stopped in front of the house.
“Oh—that's Cathleen!” Josephine cried. “I should have known she was coming when I dreamed of her last night.” She started down the spiral staircase. “You must meet Cathleen.”
The words floated back up to Martha as she watched a blond woman alight from the car. She'd thought of Cathleen as dark. But, of course, Charn was fair.
Had he been the one in her room last night?
Josephine ran down the stairs, Martha following more slowly. Josephine waited impatiently for her in the hall, and they found Cathleen in the library, perched on the edge of Jules's desk, chattering gaily. She turned when they came into the room.
Her hair was golden-blond and curled under gently where it touched her shoulders. Her eyes were a pale blue-green, matching a pastel knit pantsuit that clung to her, revealing an excellent figure.
“Well, Josephine,” she said, “I've brought you a painting, the one I've promised for so long—I do keep my promises sooner or later.” The pale eyes flicked to Martha and her eyebrows raised. “The new nurse?” She turned back to Jules. “Has Natalie softened up? I thought she mistrusted anyone under fifty.”
“I hired Miss Jamison.” Jules said.
“Oh?”
“I’m Martha Jamison,” she said, forcing herself to speak in an even tone.
Two small creases appeared between Cathleen’s brows. “You’re from the States. Seattle?”
“Just recently, yes.”
“I thought perhaps I’d seen you there But…” Cathleen allowed her voice to trail off.
Martha tensed, thinking, she’s going to recognize me from those horrid pictures in the papers. Cathleen shrugged, shook her head and turned away. “I’ve asked a few people over for the weekend,” she said to Jules. “All right?”
“If you’ve invited them already, what else can I do but agree?” he asked.
“Are you going to have a party? ” “ Josephine wanted to know.
Cathleen smiled. “If you’d like one.”
“Back, I see.” Charn’s voice startled Martha. Once again he c a o me up so quietly she hadn’t heard him.
“Hello, dear brother Charn. ” Cathleen’s voice sounded mocking rather than affectionate. “Just can’t stay away, can you?” he said.
“At least I manage to leave once in a while.”
Jules stood up and instantly Cathleen turned back to him. “We’ll have a party then, Jules, shall we? For Josephine?”
“And Martha, too,” Josephine said, linking her arm in Martha’s. “You’ll come to the party, won’t you?”
“ Of course she will,” Cathleen said.
Martha had a moment’s panic, thinking of meeting a group of strangers. Could she count on no one associating her with Marty Collier? Then she remembered that someone at Black Tor already knew but preferred to keep his knowledge a secret. Her eyes flicked from Charn to Jules, but they were both watching Cathleen.
“I’ll tell Aunt Natalie,” Jules said. “She likes to plan ahead. What night will the party be?”
“Saturday, of course.” Cathleen held her hands out to Jules, and he took them in his. “Oh, it's good to be home,” she said, looking at him.
Martha thought the two of them might have been alone. She pushed away the prick of jealousy. What reason did she have to resent Jules's attraction for his cousin? And Cathleen was pretty.
Martha turned away and met Charn's knowing smile. She tried to slip quietly out the door, but then she encountered Natalie in the foyer.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Jamison. My brother would like to meet you. I'll ask you to remember he's a sick man and to keep the visit short.” Natalie's tone was brisk but neutral.
Martha followed the older woman up the stairs. Then she turned to the left, away from the corridor that led to Martha's room, and walked to the end of a similar hall. Natalie opened a door, and they came into a sitting room full of heavy mahogany furniture, the pieces so crowded together that Martha felt stifled. A large black dog stood stiffly by the door as though guarding the room against strangers, but Martha no more than glanced at it. She knew by then there were no live animals at Black Tor.
Natalie led her through this room and into a bedroom beyond, where a hospital bed dominated the scene. An oxygen tank stood tall and green beside the bed. A man rose from a chair as they entered, and Martha recognized the muscular young man she'd caught a glimpse of from the parlor.
“We won't need you for a few minutes, Simon,” Natalie said.
The man came around the bed toward them. He kept looking at Martha.
Martha shifted her eyes. Should she introduce herself, since Natalie had neglected to do so? She hesitated, then drew back as Simon brushed against her in passing. Surely that hadn't been necessary. She watched him go out the door.
“Simon looks after my brother,” Natalie said.
“Is that you, Nat?” A man's voice, thin but clear, came from the bed.
Martha turned toward him in surprise.
Natalie paid her no attention. “I didn't realize you were awake, Norman. Shall I raise the bed?”
“I'd like my head up a little more, yes.”
Natalie pushed a button, and the head of the bed rose so that Norman Garrard was in a sitting position.
Now Martha saw that he was not an exact duplicate of the portrait of his father that hung in the dining room. His face was thin to the point of emaciation, and his beard and hair were shot with gray, lessening the impact of the white streaks.
“This is Martha Jamison, who's come to be with Josephine. You wanted to meet her.”
“Come over here, Martha. Let me look at you.”
Martha approached the bed.
“A pretty young woman. Always like a pretty nurse, myself. I suppose that's why you found Simon for me, Nat. You never were one to let a person indulge his whims.”
His color was poor, bluish around the lips. Heart Martha thought.
“I'll want her to read the family history. Don't argue with me about it, Nat. Just be good enough to get the book—it's in the bookcase in the other room.” Natalie pursed her lips and went out the door.
Norman Garrard leaned toward Martha. “Watch Josephine,” he whispered. “Don't let them take her away.”
“I'm here to care for her.” Martha, too, spoke softly.
“You don't understand. She's never been mad—they just want you to think so. Last year—” He stopped speaking, and she saw that his eyes were fixed on the door where Natalie was reentering the room.
Chapter Eight
“I believe you’ve excited yourself, Norman,” Natalie said as she came toward the bed, carrying a calf-bound book. “We'll run along—you must rest.”
Martha saw that he'd closed his eyes. Without the intent gaze of his brown eyes, he looked dead. She resisted the inclination to feel his pulse, which she knew would be weak and thready. Chronic congestive heart disease, she decided.
“Goodbye, Mr. Garrard,” she said softly. “I'm glad we've met.”
“Talking tires him,” Natalie offered. “He's eighty-five, after all, and he should know better than to exert himself. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing of any importance. He wondered how I liked my job.”
At the head of the stairs, Natalie held out the book. “He insisted on you reading this. Frankly, I don't think you'll be interested. I didn't want to argue with him and upset him. Of course, you don't have to take the book at all. As long as he thinks—”
“I'd like to read the Garrard family history,” Martha cut in. “I know so little of this area.” She took the book from Natalie. “Thank you.”
Natalie shrugged and went down the stairs.
Martha hesitated, then decided to put the book in her room before finding Josephine but Josephine was waiting in Martha's room. Her eyes glistened with excitement. “Oh, everything's so much better since you came!” Josephine exclaimed. “You're lucky. I knew you were when I touched the coral necklace. And now Cathleen's home and there'll be a party!”
“Your cousin's very pretty,” Martha said.
“Oh—Cathleen? Yes. Men like her.” Josephine giggled. “Only Jules holds out—she can't get Jules.”
“I thought he seemed quite--interested.”
“Maybe. But he’s never going to get married again and that’s what Cathleen wants. Because of the money.”
“I thought you liked Cathleen.”
“I do. She's fun. But the money's mine. And Jules's, too. When daddy dies.” She got up from the chair by the window and came toward Martha. “You saw him just now, didn't you? He's going to die soon, isn't he?”
Martha turned away, her skin prickling uneasily. Norman Garrard had said his daughter wasn't mad. Perhaps not, but could this be called normal, this—this ghoulish waiting for death?
“He has a serious heart condition,” she said.
“That man came,” Josephine said.
“What man?” This jumping from topic to topic could merely be restlessness, but many patients at Camarillo had d
one the same, flitting from one subject to another, like hummingbirds at a blossoming shrub.
“Why, the man who knows you, the one you met on the boat.” Josephine's eyes glinted with mischief.
Where had she heard about that? Still, Martha had been warned that Josephine listened at doors.
“If you mean Branwell Lowrey,” Martha told her, “he has business with your brother.”
“I know. What’s he look like? Is he short and red-haired like the Bronte Bramwell? I never heard of anyone else being named that.”
Martha shook her head. “He has brown hair--and a beard. I can't remember if Bronte Branwell sported a beard.”
Josephine was silent for a moment. “I didn't get to see him, but I'll watch when he leaves,” she said at last.
“Do you like to read?” Martha asked, wanting to change the subject. “You mentioned the Brontes.”
“Yes. I've read everything about them—the girls mostly, not their beastly little brother. I hated him. He couldn't even paint, much less write, but the fuss was always about him and not Charlotte or Emily. Imagine being able to write something like Wuthering Heights.”
“Catherine's love was an obsession,” Martha said.
“But isn't love always if you can't have the man you want?” Josephine asked. “And for the man, too—Heathcliff was equally obsessed.”
“He was strange from the beginning,” Martha argued, “while Catherine could have led a normal enough life if she hadn't encountered him. I've always felt so.”
“Like me?” Josephine said. “Would I have been 'normal' if I hadn't met Diego?”
“You're not—abnormal,” Martha said.
“Yes, I am, and you know it. But I'm not crazy.'' She came close to Martha. “Let's go on a picnic tomorrow. I haven't been on a picnic since—for a long time. We can ask Sarah. She says I never do anything with her, so she can come, too.”
Martha hesitated, remembering what Jules had said . ,
“Oh, we won't go off the grounds—I know Jules won't let us. But there're nice places here, places where we can be alone.”
“All right. I haven't been on a picnic since I was a little girl, ” “ Martha said. “I'll tell Elsa to fix us a basket with hot chocolate to drink. Do you want to choose the food or be surprised?” Josephine asked.