“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Her intense blue eyes looked into mine, searching. I felt uncomfortable under the hard gaze, but I did not look away. After a moment she said, pressing the thin lips tightly together.
“Perhaps you don’t,” she said. “I shall have to keep my eye on you just the same. You behave yourself, hear me? I could be wrong—yes, I could be wrong.”
“About what?”
“Never you mind. Just behave.”
She was talking in riddles. I could not understand what her strange words meant. I remembered that she drank large quantities of liquor, and although she did not appear to be intoxicated at the moment her brain was probably fuddled by the alcohol. She stood staring at me, her eyes full of something that I could not properly identify. Mischief? Perhaps. The old woman looked very mischievous. She would probably avoid any real trouble, but I thought she probably relished a good scrap. I could not dislike her, just as I could not dislike a troublesome child, and that is what she reminded me of.
The front door slammed loudly, and in a moment Corinne came storming into the room. She was wearing the outfit her nephew had described to me, the tan riding habit, the hat with the billowing moss green veil. The veil half concealed her heavily made up face, and it swept behind her now as she entered the room. She brought an air of electricity with her. The room seemed to be charged with tempestuous vitality. She stopped and stared when she saw me standing there with Agatha Crandall. She did not look at all pleased.
“You’re up?” she snapped, addressing Agatha.
“Yes, dear,” Agatha said. I noted the acid tone of her voice. She smiled at Corinne, and the smile was malicious.
“That surprises me,” Corinne said, her own voice far from sweet.
“Really?”
“Yes. It surprises me that you were able.” She emphasized the last word.
“Everyone seems to exaggerate my drinking,” Agatha remarked. “It may be a small vice, but at least it doesn’t hurt anyone. I could think of a lot worse things a person could do.”
“What do you mean?” Corinne demanded.
“Tut, my dear. Have I scored?”
They stood glaring at each other. I could feel the animosity. It was like being in the room with two cats, both holding back, both arched and ready to let fly with fang and claw. Corinne jerked off her hat and threw it across the room, the veil fluttering wildly. It landed on the sofa. Agatha lifted an eyebrow and smiled her superior smile. It was evident that these two women could not stand each other, and I wondered why Corinne kept Agatha at Lyon House, that being the case.
“What has she been saying to you?” Corinne asked me.
I started to reply, but Agatha Crandall spoke up before I could get the words out.
“Nothing, dear. Nothing at all. Just little pleasantries. Nothing else—yet.”
“If you dare—”
“No, dear,’ don’t fly into one of your rages. You know how they upset you.” She spoke in the dulcet tones of the paid companion. “You would just have to spend the rest of the day in bed and take some of your nasty medicine. Besides, you know they’re absolutely meaningless with me. Save them for someone they will impress.”
Corinne was smoldering, her dark eyes full of anger. I thought she was going to hurl something at the other woman, but she managed to control herself. Her mouth twitched and she clenched her hands. She whirled around, her back to Agatha Crandall. Her shoulders trembled.
“There, there,” Agatha said. “That’s better. You know how these rages affect you. At your age you simply must avoid them. You work yourself into such a frenzy, such a frenzy, and for no purpose.”
“Why don’t you go open another bottle, Agatha,” Corinne said, the words full of rancor.
“Oh, I don’t think so, dear. I don’t think so. Now that Julia is here I believe I will abstain for a while. I must keep sharp and alert. You never know—” Her voice faded off, but the smile remained. She had the look of one with a great secret, bursting to tell it yet refraining because of the power it gave her.
Agatha Crandall left the room, very satisfied with herself. Corinne stood at the window, mastering her rage. I was embarrassed. I was completely bewildered by the ugly scene and did not know what to say now that I was alone with Corinne. I was upset; the peace and harmony I had first felt at Lyon House had been rudely disturbed.
“That woman is intolerable!” Corinne cried, turning to face me. “She is wretched when she’s drunk, of course, but when she’s sober she’s even worse! Wretched, wretched woman!”
“Surely she meant no harm,” I said.
“Meant no harm! The old harridan would love to upset everything!”
“If you feel so strongly about it, why don’t you get rid of her?”
“I might,” Corinne said, her eyes snapping. “I just might! She can’t treat me like that—”
Corinne saw my expression, and she calmed herself. She picked up the hat and held it in her arms, the moss green veil sweeping the floor. Corinne enjoyed scenes, and she no doubt derived great satisfaction from her eccentric tantrums and the confusion they caused, but she had not enjoyed the scene with Agatha Crandall, nor had her emotion been simulated. Her shoulders slumped now, and there was a look of concern in her dark eyes.
“What did she really say to you?” she asked. “You stay away from her,” Corinne said. “She’s a wicked old woman who loves to stir up trouble. She finds life unbearable, so she spends most of her time trying to make it unbearable for everyone else. She resents me because I had been kind to her and tried to help her. That’s what always happens when you are good to someone. Why I put up with her I don’t know.”
Edward Lyon came sauntering into the room, his hair mussed and his face still showing signs of sleep. He wore a brown velvet smoking jacket with his black trousers and a pair of soft brown leather slippers. When he saw Corinne’s expression he stopped and shook his head. Then he made as if to make a hasty retreat.
“Another of those mornings,” he said, grinning.
“Agatha,” Corinne said, as if the one word explained everything.
“I see,” Edward Lyon said. He looked at me and lifted an eyebrow. “Has Agatha been bothering you?” he asked pleasantly.
“Not at all,” I replied.
“She’s been babbling again,” Corinne said, “telling this child Heaven only knows what kind of nonsense! We are going to have to find a way to stop her. We are simply going to have to do something, Edward. I can’t take any more of this!”
“Do you think so?” he asked casually.
“Yes. The woman is impossible!”
“Very well,” he said, “don’t get into a stew about it. We’ll work something out. Now I suggest we all have breakfast. I saw Cook going into the dining room with the most marvelous plate of biscuits.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Corinne cried.
“Yes, dear, at least for the moment. I’m hungry.”
“You’re as bad as she is!”
“We abound with passion here,” Edward Lyon said to me. “You will find it most invigorating.”
Corinne was sulky all during the meal, and Agatha Crandall sat with her peculiar little smile, hardly touching her food. I had no appetite myself, and only Edward Lyon ate heartily. He buttered the biscuits and spread them with strawberry jam. He was obviously quite accustomed to these scenes and clearly did not intend to let them ruffle him. He was immune to his aunt’s moods and enjoyed his breakfast as much as he would have had all been peaceful accord.
Shortly after breakfast it began to rain, pouring in great blinding sheets, and making the world outside a whirling mass of gray. The rain splashed against the windows, and the house was so dark that we had to light the lamps. Agatha Crandall went up to her room, and Corinne sat in the parlor, brooding over a deck of cards. She clearly did not want company, so I avoided her. Edward Lyon talked to me for a little while and promised to take me for a ca
noe ride tomorrow. He went off to work on some accounts, and I found myself alone.
I wandered into the library, searching for a book. I finally took down one of Dickens’ novels and curled up on the sofa. The curtains were parted and I could see the rain splashing against the glass. I tried to read, but even Mr. Dickens was no comfort now. I could not concentrate. I looked at the walls of beautifully bound volumes, the lamp light glimmering on their gilt titles. There was an enormous gray marble fireplace with tall black andirons and screen, enormous chairs covered with green leather, as was the sofa. A beautifully varnished globe of gold and red and brown stood on a revolving stand. It was a comfortable room, but I felt no comfort. I could not forget the ugly scene this morning. I had the feeling that it concerned something far more important than anything either woman had said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE GARDENS were lovely, bathed now in sunlight that fell in glittering white rays from a silver-gray sky. I strolled down the neat flagstone path, stopping to admire a bed of vivid blue gentians, walking on to see a bed of pink and purple geraniums. The path twisted and turned among the beds. I walked under arches of white trellis that held small pink roses. The fragrance was overwhelming, heady. I closed my eyes to savor it better. Even though it was three miles to the sea, I could smell the salty tang in the air. It was a glorious day, and it seemed incredible now that yesterday had been so grim and gray and depressing. The rain had washed everything clean, and the sunlight made everything sharp and bright.
I was waiting for Edward Lyon. He had promised to take me for the canoe ride this morning. I had awakened early after a night of fitful sleep, and I had hurried outside after a solitary breakfast. No one else had been up at that early hour, and I was content to examine the gardens and think my own private thoughts.
They mostly concerned Edward Lyon. He had had a long talk with me last night, finding me still in the library after dinner. Languorous, rather lazy, he had stretched out on the sofa, regarding me with eyes whose lids drooped sleepily. He asked me all about the music hall and the people there and then he asked me about my sister Maureen, and I found myself telling him all that I remembered of that beautiful stranger. He told me in turn about his childhood at Lyon House and how he had been a mischievous, moody little boy who was always getting into trouble. I could not deny the fascination the man had for me. Every detail about his life seemed incredibly important to me. I was a little afraid of him.
Perhaps I was not so much afraid of him as I was afraid of myself. I had had absolutely no experience with men, and I was a little bewildered by my reactions to his presence. I was polite and cool and modest on the surface, the properly bred young woman, but within there was something that I did not think proper at all. I wished I could discuss it with Laverne or Mattie, but as it was I would have to fend for myself. I knew Edward Lyon was dangerous for me, and I knew I was not capable of coping with him if he chose to become attentive.
He was suave, sophisticated, a man of the world, handsome, well bred and formidably intelligent, for all that he had not done well at Oxford. He had the poise and polish of a man much older, while I was as green and inexperienced as it was possible to be. I had never had so much as a school girl crush on anyone, and if I was to be initiated into those mysteries of life that the chorus girls babbled so much about, it was far better that I choose a less adept instructor.
I thought of the mysterious woman Molly had mentioned. I tried to visualize her. She would be beautiful, worldly, a suitable match for the man. With women like that available to him, he would have little use for someone like me. I knew that. I knew that I was courting disaster when I thought about him in this way, but it was exciting. I might think my own thoughts, but I had sense enough not to let anyone else suspect them. I would continue to be polite and friendly with Edward Lyon, content to play the role of the child he must think of me as.
He came out of the house now, blinking a little at the sunlight and running his fingers through his thick auburn hair. He was wearing a suit of some light gray and white striped material and he carried a straw hat, suitable for canoeing. He put the hat on his head and sauntered towards me, his hands jammed in his pockets. His green tie was a little crooked and the hat was perched at a jaunty angle.
“Morning,” he said. “Been up long?”
“For hours,” I said. “Long before Corinne went for her ride. I saw her come in a while ago.”
“Incredible,” he cried.
“What?”
“That anyone can get up that early. I would lounge in bed half the morning if I thought Corinne would tolerate it. I’m lazy by nature, you know. The life of leisure—that’s for me.”
“Then how do you explain rowing—and soccer at college?”
“Sports. That’s play, not work.”
“You don’t like work?”
“Does anyone?” he asked.
“I don’t mind it,” I replied rather primly.
Edward Lyon threw back his head and laughed. It was a rich sound. I blushed a little, feeling that he was mocking me. His dark brown eyes were full of good humor, and he flung his arm casually around my shoulder, walking with me down the path. I was uncomfortable, but I tried to appear unconcerned. I could smell the pungent smell of his shaving lotion and the weight of his arm on my shoulder made me awkward.
“You’re a remarkable child,” he said. “Refreshing. Corinne is going to fight me for your company. This sunlight is a bit much, isn’t it? Blinding!”
“It’s lovely,” I remarked.
“But not at this hour. Are you sure you don’t want to postpone this canoe ride till the afternoon?”
“You promised,” I said, “but—if you don’t think you can manage—”
“Silly child. I can manage all right. I can canoe in a gale. Do you take me for a weakling?”
“Not exactly.”
“I was a champion pugilist in college. Won a couple of prizes. For a while I thought of doing it for a living—but a Lyon in boxing trunks! My ancestors would have turned over in their graves. Besides, it took a bit too much effort. Nevertheless, if anyone ever bothers you, just let me know and I’ll flatten the villain with one mighty blow.”
“Wouldn’t that take a bit too much effort, too?” I asked sweetly.
He chuckled. “I suppose you think I’m disgraceful?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“Marvelous,” he said. “Women always find the caddish type irresistible. Virtue is becoming only in women.”
“Then why are men so apt to seek the company of the unvirtuous women of the world?”
“La,” he said, still chuckling. “There are things that aren’t fit for such young ears.”
We had left the gardens behind and were walking down the flagstone path to the river. Trees grew on either side, their leaves dark green and rustling lightly in the breeze. We passed a little clearing with buttercups making bright yellow spots on the grass. An ancient gazebo stood in the middle of the clearing, the roof sagging, the white paint peeling a little from the sides. It must once have been lovely, but now it was boarded up, the planks nailed haphazardly over all the octagon sides. I asked Edward about it.
“I understand it was the favorite retreat of my grandmother,” he replied. “There was some sort of accident there long ago. It was boarded up then and hasn’t been used since.”
“It’s rather isolated,” I remarked. “It must once have been a perfect place for a romantic tryst.”
I watched his reaction carefully. I had remembered that Molly said her friend saw Edward Lyon and the mysterious woman walking down to the gazebo, and I was deliberately baiting him. He merely smiled, not at all disturbed by the remark.
“Undoubtedly,” he replied. “Probably was, too. Those ancestors of mine were a gamy bunch, despite the beards and stern expressions.”
We passed the clearing and the path curved around a group of trees. I could see the river now, the water very blue, sparkling with silver refl
ections. Willow trees grew thick on either side of the water, their graceful jade green leaves dripping down into it. There was a boathouse and a little pier. The canoe was already on the water, tied to the pier and bouncing on the slight waves. It looked terribly flimsy, and I was a little dubious about getting into it. Edward Lvon saw my apprehension and grinned.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” he said.
He took my hand and led me over the wooden pier. He helped me into the canoe, holding my hand firmly while the boat rocked under my feet. I was afraid I was going to pitch into the water.
“Steady,” he said. “Careful there. Sit on those pillows. Relax. It looks shaky, but it won’t tip over unless you make a sudden move.”
He climbed into the boat, moving rapidly and with assurance. The canoe rocked and the water splashed around us, but Edward Lyon merely laughed and unfastened the rope that held it to the pier. In a moment we were moving down the river. There was a basket of food in the middle of the canoe, with a checked tablecloth folded over it. I could see part of a loaf of bread and the top of a wine bottle sticking out.
“My idea,” he said. “I thought we would stop somewhere on the way back and have a picnic lunch. We can cool the wine in the water.”
“How thoughtful,” I remarked.
“Oh, I’m thoughtful, too, as well as disgraceful.”
He looked up at me and grinned, and I smiled back at him. It was so peaceful on the river, and I was completely at ease now. The gentle motion of the canoe as it glided down the river and the steady sound of the paddle dipping into the water were relaxing, and all disturbing thoughts were banished. Edward Lyon paddled steadily and skillfully. I could see the muscles working under his suit, and I knew that it was work, but he seemed to be using no effort at all. He was completely relaxed, his lips resting in a slight grin, the white straw hat slanted rakishly over his head.
I lay back on the cushions, looking up at the patches of sky visible through the branches of the trees. We drifted under willow trees and the long leaves parted for us and stroked the canoe like strands of soft jade cloth. The bank was shady, frequently covered with dark green moss and slick brown mud. The silver sunbursts in the middle of the river were blindingly bright, and when the canoe passed over them they shattered and caused the water to shimmer with silver shavings. There was no sound but the dip and splash of the paddle, steady and monotonous, and the frequent cry of a bird in a thicket.
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