“Still,” I protested, “Lady Arabella burned all her husband’s unpublished papers, and if one or two of the manuscripts did escape the flames, I could hardly believe they’d still be here——”
Aunt Agatha sighed heavily, giving me an exasperated look. She clearly enjoyed believing in the manuscripts, and I could easily see why. She was old, and alone most of the time, and this had undoubtedly brought a great deal of excitement into her life. She had always been given to enthusiasms: raising snails, gardening, collecting books on Victorian crimes, studying ancient Egyptian mystic cults. This was merely another enthusiasm, and she must have great fun looking through old boxes and prowling in the attic for such unusual plunder.
“I’m not the only one who believes in the manuscripts,” she said, almost as though she had been reading my mind. “After the story came out in the papers, I was besieged by people who wanted to come to Gordonwood and hunt. A couple of chaps even tried to break into the house.”
“Mr. Stanton told me about that,” I said. “I find it rather alarming. If they did exist, the manuscripts would be more valuable than a cache of precious gems. That could easily attract the criminal element——”
“Bosh!” she cried. “You’ve been writing far too many thrillers. These chaps were perfectly harmless. But there’s no need to worry about that sort of thing now that we’ve got the dogs. They’ll keep out any unwelcome visitors. Still,” she reflected, “I’m glad we’ve got a big strong man about the place. Makes one sleep easier.”
I couldn’t help but think of my experience in the east wing. It still bothered me, even though I knew deep down that it had been nothing more than a combination of nerves and over-active imagination. Suppose someone else, someone outside Gordonwood, was as interested in the manuscripts as my aunt? Suppose they were determined to find them on their own and had, somehow or other, managed to slip into the house? What if … I shook myself mentally, refusing to give way to my novelist’s imagination. There was no sinister stranger lurking among the shadows at Gordonwood, and there were probably no manuscripts either, though my aunt enjoyed thinking there might be.
Sunshine streamed into the room in long yellow rays, and I could see a clump of daffodils and part of a dark green hedge through the windows. It was absurd to imagine anything amiss on such a glorious day. The room was cozy, faded and worn and full of character, and I was delighted to be with Aunt Agatha again. Most women her age were putting up strawberry preserves or knitting woolen sweaters, but my aunt was original. I could hardly visualize her doing anything domestic. She would read about horrendous crimes instead of dusting, collect enamel snuffboxes and grow exotic herbs instead of sweeping. That was part of her charm, part of what made me love her so dearly. Aunt Agatha might be madly impractical at times, but she was never dull, never commonplace.
“I’m a wretched hostess,” she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her pinkish-brown tweed skirt. “Keeping you here all this time, talking like a garrulous old fool. It’s almost noon, and you must be starved. Lunch is quite informal. Cook just puts sandwiches and tea on the table in the breakfast nook. Come along, dear. Not you, Earl! Out you go. Find Prince.”
Earl looked crestfallen, but he slumped outside, turning to give me a parting look of love. Aunt Agatha rattled her pearls and brushed a fluff of sandy hair from her forehead, linking her arm in mine and leading me out to the hall.
“Craig’s book is going to be smashing,” she said as we moved down the hall. “He’s finished several chapters already, and they’re vastly readable, quite racy. I’m sure it’ll be a best seller. I may be a selfish old woman, but I adore having him here. He’s pure sterling.”
“I’m sure it’s been jolly for you.”
“So grand having young people around—first him, now you. I hope you didn’t take offense at my remarks, Susan dear. I’m an incurable matchmaker. I have this wild compulsion to pair people off, particularly when they’re two such gorgeous people.” She threw back her head, laughing gleefully. “I’m sure I won’t have to do any matchmaking in this case. Craig’s bound to fall for you, and he’s a very determined young man.”
“I can be very determined myself,” I replied, “particularly when it comes to preserving my——”
“Virtue?” she asked merrily.
“—my independence,” I said firmly.
“You’re such a stick, Susan!” She scolded. “But that’ll change. You’re your mother’s daughter and my niece. Blood is bound to tell!”
I laughed in spite of myself. It was impossible to be irritated with Aunt Agatha for long. Life itself was a miracle to her, and she celebrated it every day with vivacious zest. Her gaiety was infectious, and I felt myself loosening up, forgetting my qualms. She was chatting about her collection of cactus plants as we turned the corner and a woman stepped out into the hall from one of the back rooms, giving both of us a start.
“My God, Mildred!” Aunt Agatha cried. “Do you have to creep like that? Can’t you make a little noise and let people know you’re about?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman sniffled.
“Don’t whine, girl! I can’t abide whining!”
I stared at the woman in fascination, not knowing whether to burst into laughter or draw back in horror. She was truly pathetic, almost comically so. She wore heavy white shoes, white cotton stockings, a rumpled white nurse’s uniform, and a shapeless brown sweater pulled around her shoulders. Her face was round and jowly, a thick layer of pancake hiding blemishes, and her. brown eyes were mournful. Her mousy brown hair was worn in an untidy bun on the back of her neck, limp strands spilling out of place. She could have been twenty—or fifty-five.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Mildred said in her weak, nasal voice. “You know it’s time to take your pill. Dr. Matthews says one pill before every meal and it’s lunchtime now and——”
“Run along, Mildred,” Aunt Agatha said in haughty tones. “I have no intention of taking one of your bloody pills, and you can tell Dr. Matthews I said so! Out of my sight! Why I keep you on I’ll never know——”
“But Lady Gordon——” she protested.
“Out, out!” my aunt cried, as though she were shooing away a bothersome child. Mildred shuffled on down the hall, casting mournful glances at us over her shoulder.
“What on earth——” I began.
“A creature as ugly as that should be chloroformed at birth!” my aunt said irritably. “God knows we can’t all be attractive, but Mildred seems to glory in her drabness. I expect her to vanish into the woodwork any day now!”
“But she was wearing a nurse’s uniform——”
“She’s a nurse! It stands to reason she’d be wearing a uniform.”
“But what——”
“It’s very simple, dear,” she said. “I was down with a rather bad spot of flu last month and had to stay in bed a week or so—nothing serious, I assure you. Paul insisted on sending that wretched creature over. She drove me up the wall, I don’t mind telling you! Can you imagine being cooped up with someone like Mildred hovering over you? Sheer horror! I went hoarse shouting at her.”
“Why is she still here?”
“Poor thing hasn’t anyplace else to go, actually, and Paul thinks she should be on hand to see that I get the proper rest and take my pills. Nonsense, of course, but I appreciate his concern. Paul is an old and dear friend. I let Mildred stay just to humor him, although I spend most of my time trying to elude the creature!”
“But if you’re not still sick——”
“Do I look sick?” she snapped.
“Of course not, but——”
“There’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” she said impatiently. “I have never felt better in my life. The pills are merely vitamin capsules, and I wouldn’t touch ’em for the world! I have my own herb garden in back, you know, and it’s kept me fit as a fiddle for thirty years. I wouldn’t have caught the flu in the first place if I hadn’t gone ou
t in the rain to take Althea some broth. That was pure folly.”
She gave my arm a tight squeeze and led me toward the kitchen area. I could smell bread baking, and there was the tangy aroma of apples from the pantry. Aunt Agatha stopped to brush a speck of lint from her skirt, then turned to give me a close scrutiny, an expression of deep concentration on her long, plain face.
“You know, dear,” she said briskly, “you could use some of my herbs yourself. I don’t know that it’s healthy living in that crowded city with all those fumes and that nasty wet weather. I suppose you still have those dreadful habits, too. Sleeping till noon—shocking! I’ll make you some of my special tea. It’ll build up that tired blood.”
“But I don’t have tired blood,” I protested.
“Works wonders for constipation, too,” she continued, ignoring my comment. “Come along, Susan!” She nodded her head firmly and linked her arm in mine again, leading me on toward the kitchen. I felt absolutely helpless against her authoritative manner, and delighted, too. Aunt Agatha was like a force of nature, sweeping one along with her. I found it delightful to be swept along with such incredible gusto.
Although she refused to take her pills and led the poor nurse a merry chase, Aunt Agatha’s one concession was to take a nap every afternoon after lunch. She wanted to make today an exception, but I insisted she go on upstairs. She did so with reluctance, first having a long consultation with Cook and then informing me we were to have a grand dinner that evening, candlelight and wine, quite formal. Dr. Matthews would be coming, and it would be super. After she had gone to her bedroom I decided to take a tour of the gardens. I hadn’t seen Craig Stanton since he showed me to my room. I supposed he was working on his book or, perhaps, searching for the manuscripts. I didn’t particularly want to see him again just yet, and touring the gardens would give me an opportunity to think about some of the remarkable things I had learned this morning.
The terrace was charming, the cracked white tiles washed with sun and dappled with soft purple shadows from the trees growing around it. Earl was curled up on a shabby chaise longue with green plastic cushions, and an old yellow straw hat and a pair of shears rested on a low white iron table beside the chaise longue. Pots of vivid blue delphiniums added a friendly touch. It was a peaceful spot, one Aunt Agatha had described in many of her letters. I knew she liked to sit out here in the morning sun, write her letters, and read the bloodthirsty thrillers she devoured so ardently.
Earl looked up with sleepy eyes when he heard my heels tapping on the tiles. He gave a formidable yawn, shook his sleek silver body, and leaped from his bed. I allowed him one kiss, then told him in no uncertain terms that our friendship was going to be strictly platonic. He tilted his head to one side, listening intently, and I could have sworn he understood every word. Nevertheless, he gave me another slurping smack on the cheek and capered about like an overgrown puppy, following me down the low white marble steps that led to the gardens. Outrageous animal, I thought, rather flattered to have inspired such immediate and abounding affection.
Although the lawns and gardens of Gordonwood were vast and wooded, the gardens near the house were neater, more formal in arrangement, a flagstone path winding among them and narrow white marble steps leading down from one level to another. There were shady arbors and tall green shrubs and latticework trellises covered with thick honeysuckle making fragrant tunnels, cool and green. I wandered aimlessly, admiring the full-blown yellow and salmon-orange roses in their neat beds. Hollyhocks and blazing red poppies grew against rough-hewn graystone walls, and birds scolded from the leafy seclusion of the oak boughs overhead. Earl ran on ahead with energetic leaps and bounds, looking around to see that I was following, quite clearly showing off for my benefit.
I paused at one of the lower levels, looking back up toward the house. Seen from this distance, it was still large and formidable, black-green ivy growing up one of the gray walls, crumbly orange chimneys and squat black smokestacks adorning the multileveled green slate roof. The leaded windows were dark, almost opaque it seemed from here, and the enormous oak trees growing so near the house made it seem even more ponderous. It looked much as it must have looked a hundred years ago, when Sir Robert Gordon stalked through the halls in one of his dark rages and Lady Arabella in cool muslin gown served tea and cakes to the ladies in her charity organizations. I could imagine the two of them dwelling within those somber walls with their son and the frail young daughter who had died from consumption, but it seemed unreasonable of Aunt Agatha to stay here when she could have a charming flat in London. She loved the place, though, and it was home to her, for all its size and inconveniences.
A squirrel chattered noisily on the shaded green lawn behind me, darting from tree to tree on nimble feet, and Earl took out after it, barking lustily and deserting me for livelier activity. I slowly wandered down a narrow path between two solid walls of tall green shrubbery that towered up a good ten feet. Sun gilded the thick rustling leaves, and insects buzzed loudly. It was pleasant here, I thought, turning a corner, still surrounded by shrubs. There was the pungent odor of soil and healthy growth, a vivid blue sky above filled with wind-torn clouds and, on either side, the thick green walls. Charming place. One could forget everything.… I turned another corner, only to find another aisle between the shrubs. I was curious now, wondering where all this was leading.
I turned corner after corner, only to find more aisles. The shrubs were not so neatly trimmed here, ragged limbs and leaves sticking out, the path between them more narrow. I stopped, staring about me in dismay, and then I realized what I had done. I remembered my aunt’s voice from a long time ago, telling me not to wander in the maze, little girls got lost there and missed their dinners. I had completely forgotten that warning, had forgotten that the maze even existed, yet I had plunged straight into it like a prize idiot. I remembered looking down at it from my bedroom window when I was a child on that first visit: a great green square of shrubs that covered the whole lower level. It looked like a pretty geometric pattern seen from the bedroom window, but it didn’t look so pretty now.
I told myself not to panic. I was ordinarily quite calm, unruffled by most feminine phobias. Mice didn’t bother me, and I was tolerant of spiders and wasps and assorted flying insects that caused many of my girlfriends to go into screaming hysterics, but the one thing that caused me to lose complete control was closed, confined places. I’d walk up ten flights of steep stairs to avoid riding an elevator, and closed public phone booths were out of the question. You’re not confined, I told myself, there’s a bright blue sky above and all this fresh air, but nevertheless the dark leafy walls on either side seemed to loom up with a sinister force, pressing towards me, threatening to crush and destroy. It was absurd, absurd, I knew, yet the panic was there and it was a very real thing inside me.
I forced myself to turn around and walk back the way I had come, moving at a normal pace when I wanted to run. I knew that if I once let go, if I ran screaming down the aisles with pounding heart, I would be utterly demolished. Turning the corner, I strolled down the next aisle, then turned again, quelling the panic. Yes, I was going the right way. I remembered that shaggy tear in the shrub and that patch of jade-green leaves among the darker ones. In a matter of minutes I would be out of this dreadful place, back among the roses and the sweeping lawns. I wondered what diabolic mind conceived the maze in the first place. What purpose did it serve? It was a wretched thing, designed to confuse and bewilder. I walked slowly down the narrow pathway, branches brushing my shoulders, concentrating on the turns. I felt quite confident now, certain I was going the right way. Then I saw the patch of jade-green leaves again.
I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare. My face was flushed, my cheeks a bright pink, and hair had tumbled over my forehead. I brushed it away, trying to maintain a degree of calm. I had made a simple mistake, turning to the left when I should have turned to the right, and it had brought me back to the place I started from. Hysteria began to mount i
nside, threatening to spill over any minute now. I could visualize hours and hours spent trying to find my way out of this hellish trap.
Use your logic, I told myself. The house was due north from the maze, but which way was north? I had absolutely no sense of direction. I remembered those awful weeks at camp when I was a child. We had worn white middy blouses and blue skirts and I had been utterly miserable when Old Hatcher with her blonde braids and stocky body had herded us out into the woods, barking commands and blowing her whistle if any of us got out of line. She had pointed out all sorts of dreary things like bark and birds’ nests, and there had been lectures on survival. You could always find your way out of the woods by looking at the lichen, I remembered, and any fool could get a sense of direction by seeing where the sun was in the sky. Great, but there was no lichen on the shrubs, and I could see nothing overhead but the blue sky. The sun was up there somewhere, most assuredly, but I couldn’t see it from where I stood.
I could stand here and scream until someone found me, I reasoned, or I could hold on and hope to find my way out on my own. The first alternative was far too humiliating to contemplate, so I chose the second one, squaring my shoulders and marching with brisk determination down the narrow pathway between the towering green walls. Fifteen minutes later I was in a state of nervous shock. The exit might be right around the next turn, I told myself, but I had been telling myself that every time I took another corner. Freedom was so close and yet so tormentingly out of reach.
Then I heard footsteps and the sound of someone whistling. I felt an unreasonable panic, remembering the dark form in the east wing, remembering there had been prowlers at Gordonwood. I was trapped, helpless … errant nonsense, of course. It was broad daylight, and surely no one with sinister motives would whistle like that. I forced my leaping pulses to be still and drew myself up with shaky composure. Rescue was at hand. Should I call out? The thought of anyone finding me in this ridiculous predicament was embarrassing, yet the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon in the maze was even more alarming. I cleared my throat, preparing to call out as casually as possible.
Stranger by the Lake Page 5