by Kathy
"Poor Uncle George. He had more guts than my mother, though."
"I think what kept him going was the fact that everyone depended on him," Cliff said. "He had to fill a lot of shoes."
"I know. Cliff, do you think he'd mind if I had the cottage renovated and moved in? Or would it be too painful for him?"
"So you have decided to stay in Seldon?" He didn't sound surprised. Darren must have told him, Meg thought.
"Yes. At least I want to give it a try. But I have to have my independence. I could find an apartment, or a house in town, but. . . ."
"But you could exorcise your ghosts by living here? I don't know, Meg. It could be the best possible thing. It could be a disaster. The ghosts may not want to leave."
"You sure know how to encourage a lady," Meg said. "I don't want to hear that, Cliff."
"Well, hell, what do you expect from me? I'm not Dr. Freud. Half the time he didn't know his id from his ego either. If you want a guarantee, buy a refrigerator."
"I expect I'll have to," Meg said with a wry smile. "And a whole set of new appliances. I wonder what the cottage is like inside."
She swiveled around to look speculatively at the boarded-up windows, and Cliff said, "Don't ask me to flex my muscles by wrenching those boards off. I'm not dressed for it. I'll talk to Dad, if you like; it would be politic, not to say polite, to get his approval first."
"Of course. I'll ask him myself. Tonight."
"Okay." He stood up, in one smooth motion, and offered a hand to help her to her feet. "Ready to go back?"
"Yes." But Meg lingered to lift a branch heavy with crimson blossoms. She had a half-formed wish to pluck a few of the flowers; but the wiry stem resisted, and the thorns pricked her fingers. When she looked at her hand she saw a bright drop of blood on her thumb, perfect as a tiny cabochon ruby.
When Meg showered and changed she found more scratches, and a glance in the mirror justified Cliffs critical comment about her appearance. Her nose was still red, her eyes were puffy and her hair hung in gypsy dishevelment. Physically she was a mess. In other, more important, ways she felt better than she had for days. The "little chat" with Cliff had been astonishingly therapeutic.
She smiled at her reflection, remembering what Cliff had said when she thanked him for the little chat. "Just do me one favor, coz—don't marry Darren Blake. He's a nice, steady, dependable nerd, and he talks in cliches."
Meg had snapped back at him as she would have done before that cathartic conversation. On the surface their relationship hadn't changed, but Cliff was probably the only person who could help her exorcise her ghosts, and he had offered a strength and compassion she had never expected to find in him.
She twisted her hair into a coil and tucked a few pins into it to hold it at the nape of her neck. She needed a haircut; the thick mass resisted her efforts, and a shining jet-black coil fell across her bare shoulder. Meg paused, hands raised, struck by the contrast of ebony against ivory—like a curve of niello enamel on a silver ground. Would she ever look at her hair again without remembering the silver-gilt and jet-black curls under glass? She had always hated hair jewelry. Now she had a stronger reason for disliking it. The motive of the sender of the ring was obscure, but she doubted it had been kindly.
Sunday's high tea was another long-standing custom. It took the place of the evening meal, and there was always enough food on the table to feed a small army—cold ham and pate, molded salads and hot breads. When Meg came down she was startled to find her uncle in the parlor.
"If this is your idea of a long weekend—" she began.
He interrupted her, rising quickly and taking her by the shoulders. "Cliff told me what happened last night. Are you all right? Darren should have taken you to the hospital. I can't believe he would be so negligent. I knew I shouldn't have gone away, I had a feeling—"
"Uncle George, please!" Meg freed herself; she appreciated his concern, but his hard grip was painful. "What could you have done if you had been here? It was an accident, there was no harm done."
The appearance of the others ended George's attempt to resume the discussion. Gran was wearing one of her most elegant tea gowns, a confection of pale coral ruffles and extravagant lace. When George commented on how pretty she looked she said cheerfully, "It has been a delightful day, George. The sermon was one of dear Mr. Black's best, and many friends were there. And then this afternoon I had such a lovely chat with Daniel. He suggested I wear this gown, it was one of his favorites.
"He sent his love, of course," Mary went on, "and he said I was to tell Meg to keep her wits about her and to watch the store. I'm not quite sure what he meant by that, but I expect you do, don't you, darling?"
"Uh—yes, Gran."
"That's a beautiful set of cameos, Mary," Cliff said. "I don't think I've seen them before."
Mary allowed a tiny wrinkle to furrow her brow as she studied the bracelet on her arm. "I wasn't certain about them, Clifford dear. They are a trifle heavy for this gown, but the color is perfect—and they were, I believe, extremely expensive."
Meg thanked her courteous cousin for the change of subject with a sidelong smile. She was able to talk knowledgeably about coral cameos and the origin of this particular parure, which had once belonged to a daughter of Queen Victoria. Thanks primarily to Cliff the conversation remained safely neutral throughout most of the meal.
They were finishing a trifle rich with cream and custard and the first fresh strawberries, and one of the maids had served coffee when Cliff asked, "Where's Frances? She usually serves tea, doesn't she?"
"Oh, my dear!" Gran put a spoonful of cream onto a Chelsea plate and offered it to Henrietta. "Poor Frances is not at all well. I insisted she stay in bed today. She had one of her seizures last night, and didn't sleep a wink."
"Seizures!" Cliff carefully avoided Meg's eyes. "Since when has Frances been subject to fits?"
"They aren't fits, darling. She doesn't throw herself around or foam at the mouth, or anything vulgar." Henrietta let out a hoarse mew and Mary added more cream to her plate. "Frances has always been sensitive, you know. Occasionally she has— spells, I should have said. Or perhaps 'trance' is a more appropriate word."
Cliff was having a hard time controlling his mouth. "Good old Frances. I don't know why I didn't anticipate this one. So Frances is mediumistic, is she?"
"She is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter," Mary said. "She sees things."
George cleared his throat. "What did she see last night?"
"She wasn't too clear about that, George. One doesn't get distinct images, you know, only impressions. It was more a feeling of impending doom— Oh, Clifford, dear, do be careful. Pat him gently on the back, Meg."
Cliff sputtered into his napkin. "No—don't—it's. . . ." He recovered himself. "Something went down the wrong way."
"Eat more slowly, dear. What was I saying? Oh, yes, the feeling of impending doom. And lights. Bright, blinding lights." Gran shook her shining silver head. "It must have been a terrifying experience for poor Frances, seeing those lights."
"Yes," Meg said. "Terrifying."
They had to wait until Mary went upstairs. It would have been unthinkable to retreat to the library and leave her alone. Finally Henrietta indicated it was time for bed, and mistress and cat (or was it the other way around?) took their departure. The others retired to George's study. George settled himself behind his desk with a ponderous severity that carried its own message: somebody was in for it.
Cliff took off his jacket, loosened his tie and arranged himself in a boneless sprawl across the sofa. "How do you like that damnable woman? Now she's a seer. I hope she has sense enough to—"
"Never mind Frances's fantasies," his father said in freezing tones. "You pried into my drawers, Clifford. How dare you do such a thing?"
Apparently neither of them had noted the uncanny accuracy of Frances's vision. But neither of them had been in the car as Meg had, and seen the lights burst into blinding brilliance as th
e following vehicle swung out to attack. It had to be a coincidence, Meg thought. There was no way Frances could have known.
During her moment of distraction the argument had blossomed into a quarrel. Cliff went on the attack. "Who the hell do you think you are, the autocratic paterfamilias? Why didn't you tell Meg? She's the head of the family; you're just a hired employee."
It was a cruel thing to say and it made George so furious that for a moment he was incapable of speech. Meg turned on her cousin, eyes blazing. "That's a damned lie, Cliff, and you know it. Apologize to your father this instant."
Cliff chortled. "Ha! See what I mean?"
"For two cents I'd slap your silly face!"
"Children, children," George said mildly. "Don't be rude."
It was a more effective put-down than any scolding, and the combatants looked as foolish as they felt. "Sorry, Dad," Cliff muttered. "I know why you didn't say anything, and it does you credit. I just don't agree with you."
"You might have expressed your opinion more courteously," his father remarked. "Meg, thank you for that warmhearted defense. It touches me all the more because I know you're really on Cliff's side in this."
"I just don't want any more arguments about who's boss," Meg said, with a final glare at her recumbent cousin. Cliff had shown her a new and lovable aspect of his personality that afternoon, but he could still be a pain in the butt at times. She went on, "What I want is cooperation among equals. Isn't that fair?"
"More than fair," George said warmly. "I was wrong, and I swear I'll never do it again. This time the package was addressed to you, Meg; it gave me something of a shock, I admit, and I wanted to think about the situation for a while before I told you."
Cliff sat up. "You kept the envelope, I hope."
"Yes." George unlocked a drawer and took out the two rings and a padded brown mailing envelope.
As Meg took the envelope from him she found herself in sympathy with his reaction. To see her own name, written in heavy black block letters, was as direct as a blow. She could understand why the people of some cultures kept their true names secret, and believed that an enemy could strike at them through that extension of their personality.
"No return address," she murmured. "And no postmark."
George nodded. "It was in the box with the rest of the mail. Obviously delivered in person."
Cliff subsided again. "Nothing new there, then."
"Except that we now know for certain that this campaign is directed at me," Meg said. "But why? What does this person want from me?"
"There are none so blind as those who will not see," Cliff recited. "Why are you so reluctant to admit the obvious, Meg? Have you fallen for the guy, or what? Is he the reason you decided to stay in Seldon?"
The suggestion was so outrageously off the mark, Meg wasn't even angry. Before she had time to compose a properly contemptuous reply, George exclaimed, "Stay in Seldon! When did you decide this, Meg? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was going to tell you. I didn't actually make up my mind until last night. Uncle George, don't look so horrified. I thought you wanted me to stay."
"I do. I did. . . ." George took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. "I'd be absolutely delighted if it weren't for this. . . ." His outstretched finger indicated the rings, which lay on the blotter in front of him. "Meg, are you sure it's not a touch of the famous Mignot stubbornness that has influenced your decision?"
"Oho," said Cliff. "A new and provocative theory. Someone wants Meg to stay, so they try to frighten her away."
"It's not funny, Clifford. I don't like this business. What makes it even more alarming is that we can't take any action against it."
"I don't like it either, Uncle George." Meg realized her hands were tightly clenched, and forced them to relax. "But I'll be damned if I will be frightened away from doing what I want to do by a series of nasty tricks. If that's stubbornness, I'm stuck with it. But I really do want to try my hand at running the store. The last few days at the store have been so. ... It's hard to find the right words. Fulfilling, satisfying. As for Riley, I admit I haven't made much headway with him. But I have made some, and he's the biggest challenge I've ever encountered. Helping to develop that talent—oh, you can't imagine and I can't explain, but it's an incredibly exciting prospect."
"Hmph," said Cliff. He rolled over, presenting his back to them.
"And it's not because I have the faintest interest in the man personally," Meg said, directing a critical stare at Cliffs tousled head. "I'm even willing to admit he may be the one who is trying to force me to leave town. But I think I can win him over. If I can convince him I really want to work with him, that I respect his abilities and his dignity. . . ."
"Hmph," said her uncle. "Well, Meg, I see you have made up your mind. I won't argue with you. Just tell me what I can do to help."
It was a perfect opening, and Meg hesitated only for a moment. If she didn't introduce the subject Cliff would, and he would do it less tactfully than she. "Thank you, Uncle George, I knew I could rely on you. I always have, and I probably haven't told you often enough how much love and gratitude I feel for you. The thing is, I really don't think I can live in this house. I'm used to being independent, and staying here would be falling back into the old patterns. I need a place to stay."
"That's understandable," her uncle said. His eyes were shining suspiciously; he had been visibly moved by her praise. "I'm sure we could find a nice apartment or house—"
"She wants the cottage," said a voice from the sofa.
It wasn't as bad as Meg had feared. George did drop the pen with which he was playing, but his objections were the ones any overprotective parent or guardian might have raised: the isolation of the cottage, its run-down condition—and finally, hesitantly, the unhappy memories it would arouse.
"Less so for me than for you," Meg said. "That's why I was reluctant to ask you."
Cliff stirred uneasily, as if he could feel the look she aimed at him, but he did not speak, and Meg went on, "If you'd rather I didn't, I'll find someplace else. But I wouldn't be as isolated from all of you there as I would be elsewhere in town."
"That's true," George admitted. "You seem to have made up your mind about this as well, Meg."
"I'd like to do it. But I won't if you object."
Cliff rolled over and sat up. "Stop being so polite and settle the matter, so we can get on to the next subject."
"There isn't any next subject," Meg said. "We've discussed the other thing until I'm sick of it. I'm going to bed. Think about the cottage, Uncle George, and let me know."
"I don't have to think about it, honey. It's fine with me. Perhaps it's the best possible solution."
Meg leaned over the desk to give him an affectionate kiss. The rings lay on the desk, gleaming in the lamplight. She picked them up and put them in her pocket.
"What are you doing?" George asked.
"Taking them with me," Meg said. "They're mine, aren't they?"
The sky was overcast and the air was muggy when Meg left the house next morning, but she decided to walk anyway. She hadn't slept well; fresh air, however oppressive, might dispel her headache.
She knew why she felt depressed, and it had nothing to do with the rings or the accident or her suspicion of Riley. She had dreamed about Nick and awakened to find she had kicked all the blankets off and twisted the sheet around her body like a variety of straitjacket. It wouldn't have bothered her so much if she could have remembered her dream, but nothing remained except an indefinable sense of danger and malaise.
A voice hailed her, and she was so grateful for the distraction that without thinking she stopped and waved. It was old Mrs. Henderson, yelling from her front porch, and beckoning with such vigor she appeared to be in danger of hurling herself over the railing. It was impossible to ignore such urgency, but as Meg started up the walk she cursed herself for her lapse of attention. Their mutual loathing of Mrs. Henderson had been one of the few subjects on whic
h she and Cliff had agreed during their childhood. She had wooed them with cookies and kisses when they were too young to refuse her attentions; her cookies had been rock hard, studded with raisins so petrified they might have come out of an Egyptian tomb, and her kisses were the reverse—sloppy, soft and wet. She had used these repellent bribes for one purpose only—to pump the children about their parents and the family scandal. She hadn't gotten much out of them, only mumbles and embarrassed silence. But oh, the horror of those visits with dear old Mrs. Henderson!
She stopped by the steps. "Good morning. Did you want me for something?"
"Come up and set awhile," Mrs. Henderson said, baring her dentures.
I'd just as soon "set awhile" with Jack the Ripper, Meg thought. And, thank God, I'm old enough to know how to refuse your invitations more or less gracefully. "I'm afraid I can't," she said. "I'm late as it is."
"That's the way of it," Mrs. Henderson informed the world at large. "Kids grow up and get snotty, forget the people that was good to them. Guess you're too above it all to waste time with the common folks."
Age had certainly not mellowed Mrs. Henderson. Meg clung to her manners. "I certainly haven't forgotten you, Mrs. Henderson. But I'm very busy with the store these days."
"I heard about that." Mrs. Henderson leaned over the railing. Her nose jutted out like a jagged, broken branch, and every feature quivered with malice. "You must be crazy, shutting yourself up with a man like that Riley. He'd just as soon rape you as look at you."
"Do you really think so?"
Meg's frosty tone was wasted on Mrs. Henderson. "I don't think, I know. Ask that other poor girl that worked for him. He practically tore her clothes off her, right there on the counter. And he's a embolizer too. You better check them books."