The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  I left my room and hurried down the hall. Windows were open at both ends of the hall, and soft breezes raced through, stirring the curtains and making everything cool. My silken skirts made a soft, swishing sound. I heard a bird singing outside and wondered if it were a nightingale. The house was peaceful, surrounded with serenity. I could hardly believe the beauty of it.

  The dining room was aglow with candlelight when I entered. The mellow light played upon the dark yellow walls above, the richly varnished mahogany wainscotting below. It glimmered over fine plate and silver and softened everything, creating an intimate atmosphere. A silver bowl in the center of the table held yellow-orange roses, their petals scattered over the fine linen cloth.

  Edward Lyon stood up when I came into the room. He came forward to meet me, stopped midway and gave me a long look. I could see by the gleam in his dark brown eyes that he appreciated my dress. He arched one fine dark brow and shook his head a little. Then he smiled. He looked handsome in his formal attire, the black suit with its black satin lapels, the gleaming white shirtfront, but his black tie was a little crooked and his hair was untidy, boyishly ruffled. It gave a casual, relaxed touch to his appearance.

  “Is this the child I brought to Lyon House this afternoon?” he asked in a throaty voice, glancing at Corinne for affirmation.

  “That dress is wicked!” Corinne cried.

  “Mattie chose it,” I said, blushing a little.

  “Mattie must want to marry you off! A dress like that is guaranteed to trap a husband. Now don’t be tiresome, child. Don’t blush! You must wear it with flair—”

  “I think the blush is charming,” Edward Lyon said, taking my hand and leading me to my chair. “It’s innocent—a combination of innocence and worldliness. We must remember that Julia comes from the theater, and you know all those stories about actresses.”

  “Bosh!” Corinne said. “They’re tired, boring creatures who have to slave for a living. Besides, Julia is a puppeteer. Now you behave, Edward. Julia is my discovery. Do you like your room, child?”

  “It’s lovely,” I replied.

  “And the maid? Molly, I think her name is.”

  “Molly is delightful. She told me you’d been ill.”

  Corinne and Edward Lyon exchanged glances. She looked peeved. He looked at her with a curl in his lip, one brow arched, as though waiting to see what she would say. I sensed an air of tension, and I wondered what had caused it. Corinne frowned.

  “How very tiresome,” she said finally.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked, puzzled.

  “No—no, it isn’t that. Should I?” she asked, looking at her nephew.

  “Your show, Corinne. Do as you think best.”

  “She’s bound to find out anyway—oh, hell! What difference does it make! I’m not ashamed of it. You see, child,” she said, looking at me with those brown eyes surrounded by wrinkles, “I take laudanum. I have this thing about sleeping—can’t sleep without it. I ran out of it. It was quite dreadful, really. We had to send to London for more. I had a wretched time until it arrived—ran a fever and was confined to my bed. Now you know! I suppose you’re shocked?”

  “Of course not. It’s a medicine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—” she replied, drawing the word out. Edward Lyon laughed and she shot him an ugly glance. She picked up her feathered blue fan and began to wave it, irritated. She was wearing a dress of silver velvet and a dazzling sapphire necklace around her throat, the dark blue stones flashing.

  “I found everything in a terrible state when I recovered,” she continued. “Those wretched servants had taken advantage while I was ill and not a thing was done properly. I had to throw them all out!”

  “They left of their own accord after she screamed for a while,” Edward said smoothly. “Can’t say that I blamed them.”

  “Pour the champagne, Edward!” she snapped. “You’re particularly irritating tonight.

  The bottle of champagne rested in a nest of shaved ice in a silver bucket, the dark green bottle beaded with moisture. Edward Lyon removed the gold foil and pressured the cork out with his thumbs. It popped, and a spray of sparkling foam shot up. The wine sparkled with golden bubbles as he poured it into the glasses. I thought of the last time I had drunk champagne, at the party the night before I left—it seemed so long ago. This was a whole new world, and the other already seemed vague and blurry.

  “Isn’t Mrs. Crandall going to join us?” I asked.

  “She seldom does,” Corinne replied.

  “I see,” I said, sipping my champagne.

  “Agatha doesn’t like our company,” Edward Lyon remarked.

  “Bosh! Agatha is too busy drinking to like anyone’s company,” Corinne said.

  The meal was splendid, and after it was over we moved into the parlor. A servant set up a little card table and I agreed to play a game with Corinne. Edward Lyon watched us, standing in front of the fireplace with his arm resting on the mantle. Corinne chattered as she played, but she was a sharp, shrewd player, and I was helpless against her, even when she was not giving all her attention to the game. Edward laughed, accusing her of cheating. She lashed out at him viciously but he merely shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, smiling at her. He was not a man who could be easily provoked into a quarrel, I thought.

  We finished the champagne, sitting there in the parlor. Lyon House was silent, closed in by the night, but we could hear the crickets in the garden. The breeze stirred the curtains at the opened French windows. It was very late, and I was tired. Corinne was too, I could tell. She looked very old and, suddenly, very sad. She fingered her sapphire necklace, her gloved fingertips touching the dark blue stones. Corinne always wore gloves, and her dresses always covered her throat and shoulders. She did not want to expose more withered flesh than necessary, I thought. It was another sign of her vanity.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be rather dull here for you,” she said as we sat on the sofa. Edward Lyon was prowling about the room like a sleek, magnificent animal, caged. “There isn’t much for a young person to do,” she continued. I thought the words could apply to her nephew as well as to me.

  “I shall keep her occupied,” Edward Lyon said. “I’m going to take her for a canoe ride tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Corinne said, her tone disapproving.

  “The willow trees are beautiful. We’ll canoe to the village and back again. She’ll like that. And then there’s the fair. That’s always great fun.”

  “Rowdy, disorganized bash,” Corinne said, opening her fan. “There is always a fight. All those farm boys with their boots and brown hands, all the pigs and cows and poultry and stink. It’s a bit too earthy for my taste.”

  “Corinne hates the bucolic,” her nephew said, grinning. “She’s been living in the country most of her life and still shies away from the smellier aspects of it.”

  “That will be enough, Edward,” she said, her voice shrewish. “Go see that all the doors and windows are fastened. The servants are so careless about that. I think it’s time we went to bed!”

  Edward Lyon went through the house, checking to see that everything was locked up. Corinne looked angry. Her hair was a little to one side, which confirmed my suspicion that she wore a wig. She walked upstairs beside me, silent and sulky, and I wondered what could be wrong. I said good night and went to my room. Molly had turned the covers back on the bed and laid out my nightclothes. I undressed wearily and put on the nightgown. The breeze coming in through the opened windows was laden with the scent of roses. I got into bed and blew out the lamp. Moonlight stained everything with silver. The peace and security was euphoric, and I wondered how long it would last.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I AWOKE to the sound of hoofbeats on the drive. Dawn had come and left the sky a stained gray. There were heavy clouds banking up, and the breeze was strong, flapping the curtains in my bedroom. The hoofbeats died away. It was shortly after seven. I supposed Corinne was off on her daily r
ide. It seemed incredible that a woman her age would submit herself to such rigid discipline. I imagined that anyone seeing her galloping over the roads at this hour would think her eccentric, and perhaps she did it for that very reason. If Corinne Lyon could no longer gain attention with her beauty, she would do it some other way.

  I had dressed and was at the dressing table, brushing my hair, when Molly came into the room. She had forgotten to knock, remembering only after she was inside. She smiled, tossing her long black curls. I smiled back at her. Her high spirits were infectious. She was wearing a vivid blue dress with the white apron and ruffled cap, and the rich color of the material made her eyes all the more blue. The girl was not beautiful, but she had the radiant glow of youth and health that made beauty superfluous.

  “Yes, Molly?” I said.

  “I’m supposed to see if you require anything. Breakfast will be served in an hour, when the old lady gets back. She’s mad, you know, going off like that every morning, spurring the horse on. Mad! Old ladies should sit in front of the fire and knit and look gentle. Not her! She leaps over fences and hedges and raves like a demon!”

  “You do chatter, Molly,” I said in way of reprimand, but I couldn’t be irritated with her. She was too vivacious and too delightful.

  Molly pursed her pink lips and frowned.

  “There’s no one to talk to,” she said. “The other servants are all ancient. Cook won’t let me near the kitchen anymore after I turned over a pot of coffee, and the other maids—” She made a grimace. “Village girls, and just too prim for words. They think I should be in the stables!”

  “You do have a time of it, don’t you; Molly?”

  “Not now that you’re here,” she said, grinning. I noticed again the scattering of freckles over her nose. They added just the right touch.

  “You’ve got such lovely hair,” she said, stepping behind me. “It’s silvery, isn’t it. Here—” She took the brush from my hand. “Let me brush it for you, Miss Julia.” She proceeded to do so, smoothly and efficiently. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?” she asked.

  “Yes. The meal was excellent.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “What did you mean?” I asked. I already knew the answer.

  “He is handsome, isn’t he?” she said, looking at me in the mirror.

  “Very,” I replied. “I’m sure all the women pursue him.”

  “There aren’t many suitable young women around here,” she said. “All the gentry live miles away. Mr. Edward doesn’t trifle with the village girls, not even Connie Brown. She’s the baker’s daughter and a ravin’ beauty. All the men are crazy for her, and the feelin’ is mutual, if you know what I mean. A real hussy, she is. Just let her lay eyes on my Bertie! No, Mr. Edward seems to prefer the ladies in London.”

  “Does he go to London often?”

  “All the time. Maybe he has a special friend there.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, not at all surprised at the idea.

  “Of course, there was that strange woman—”

  I looked up. It was evident from the look on her face that Molly had a particularly juicy bit of gossip and was bursting to tell it. I knew I should scold her and forbid this gossip about her superiors, but I was very curious about Edward Lyon.

  “What woman?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “No one knows. She always came at night, in the dark. Millie said she saw her slippin’ around in the gardens when she worked here. She said Mr. Edward went out to meet her and they talked for a long time then walked down to the gazebo. She came more than once, Millie said, always at night and he always met her. Of course, Millie is a terrible liar, and I didn’t believe a word of it at first.”

  “Something happened to make you believe it?”

  “I saw her,” Molly said simply.

  “Really?”

  “About a week ago. It was late. Bertie Martin had come to see me, and we were out in the garden, sittin’ on one of the benches under a tree and watchin’ the fireflies. Bertie was gettin’ awfully fresh, and we had an argument and I was gettin’ ready to go back in when I saw the woman. She was walkin’ along the drive, stayin’ in the shadows of the trees, and she had a suitcase or something that looked like one. She went onto the porch, and I didn’t see her again. Bertie said it was my imagination.”

  “Perhaps it was,” I replied.

  “No, Miss Julia. I saw her. Mr. Edward has a secret friend. Maybe she won’t come back now that you’re here.”

  I flushed, feeling the color coming to my cheeks. Molly saw it and grinned. She had a devilish twinkle in her dark blue eyes. She finished brushing, and I fastened a yellow ribbon in my hair. I stood up, trying to master the irritation I felt. I was not irritated at the girl. I was irritated at myself. Why should it matter to me if Edward Lyon had a girl friend? He was a handsome young man, full of energy and drive, and I supposed it was only natural for him to have a woman. Despite the vaguely amoral atmosphere backstage at the music hall, where all the girls chattered about lovers and frequently displayed expensive gifts, I knew little about such things. Mattie and Bill had always been very strict with me, and the girls treated me like a little sister, protective in their attitude—everyone had always been protective towards me. I did not feel capable of coping with all the new emotions I was beginning to experience.

  Molly was an earthy little thing, bright and observant. Living on the farm as she did, associating with the rowdy country folk, she had probably known at the age of ten more than I knew even now. I frowned. She had immediately sensed my attraction to Edward Lyon, and she seemed to think it delightful.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about the other woman,” she said, an impish grin on her lips.

  “Why should I worry about her in the first place?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I’ve only just met Mr. Lyon,” I said irritably. “Besides, he’s ten years older than I am.”

  “Really? Twenty-eight. That’s so old?”

  “You’re being impudent,” I snapped.

  “I know. It’s awful, isn’t it. Pa says I should have been born a mute. That’s a pretty dress, Miss Julia,” she said, changing the subject. “The color goes so well with your hair. You look like an angel.”

  The dress was bright yellow printed with tiny brown flowers. It had a very full skirt, a tight waist and puffed sleeves that dropped slightly off the shoulder. It was a young girl’s dress. I stood before the mirror and turned around slowly, observing myself. I was no longer a young girl. I was a woman. The child with the puppets had vanished. Everything was different. I felt a pang of sadness, thinking of all that was lost. I wanted to run away from this new role, to hold my puppets and smile at the painted faces and feel secure in the world of innocence they represented. But I had put the puppets in their box and closed the lid. It seemed now that I had closed the lid on so much more.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. I stepped to the balcony. The sky was a solid mass of gray clouds, black on the horizon, and the wind was tormenting the trees and shrubs in the gardens. The evergreens bent and swayed, dark green, seemingly alive and protesting the wind. It was going to rain. The weather matched my mood of vague depression, and I went downstairs with a slight frown on my brow. I wondered if Corinne had come in yet.

  The lower floor seemed deserted. Far back in the kitchen regions I could hear the sound of servants preparing breakfast, but the rooms here were all empty. I wandered through them, feeling sad. Edward Lyon was probably still in bed. Corinne was out riding in the wind. I stepped into the parlor, lingering by the door. A vase of fresh white roses sat on a table, and I touched the petals, veined with gold. I heard a noise across the room and looked up to see a strange woman staring at me. She seemed as startled as I.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I—I am Julia Meredith.”

  “Oh, Corinne’s little guest. I had forgotten you were to come. I frequently forget things. Do you know
who I am?”

  “You are Agatha Crandall.”

  “Right. I suppose they’ve told you all about me.”

  “Why—”

  “Come, come, child. There’s no need to be coy.”

  “They told me you were Mrs. Lvon’s companion.”

  “Right. That I am—or was. You are very young.”

  “I am eighteen,” I said, somewhat stiffly.

  “Nonsense. No one is that young.”

  “I shall not argue with you, Mrs. Crandall.”

  “Good. Come closer. I want to see you.”

  I stepped forward, hesitantly. There was something about the woman that intimidated me. She was old and sharp, standing there sternly with magnificent posture. Her bright blue eyes were intense, and her hair was worn in rather girlish ringlets that fell in a cascade at the back of her head. It must once have been a lustrous black. Now it was streaked with silver. Her face was thin, sharp, with deep hollows beneath the cheekbones. I could see tiny purple veins in the skin that stretched over the sharp bones—the drinker’s curse. Her lips were thin and pale, held tightly together now as she stared at me. She wore a robe of violet velvet. The nap of the velvet was shiny, and the lace at the throat and wrists was slightly brownish with age.

  “You’re pretty,” she said tartly. “Too pretty. So was the other one.”

  “Other one?”

  “Don’t ask questions! That’s the privilege of the very old. I am very old, as you can plainly see. Do I frighten you?”

  “Not a bit,” I replied.

  “Then stand up straight and stop looking down at the floor. Why have you come here?”

  “Mrs. Lvon invited me.”

  “Tut! I want the real reason.”

  “That’s the only reason. She was kind enough to ask me.”

  “So they’ve involved you in this little charade, have they? A pity. You look so innocent.”