The Splendour Falls

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  She was out the door with scarcely a ‘Bye, Mom’ over her shoulder. Shawn stood, but didn’t hurry off. ‘So,’ he asked, holding my chair as I rose too, ‘what are you going to do on your first day in scenic Alabama?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I answered. ‘As little as possible, I think.’ Clara had her back to us as she rinsed the dishes, but I suspected she was paying attention to the conversation. Possibly Shawn thought the same thing, because he moved towards the back door, gesturing with a jerk of his head for me to follow him out.

  On the porch, Gigi watched us from her crate, tilting her head curiously. ‘I get out of school early today and tomorrow,’ Shawn said. ‘I could show you around the town, or whatever you wanted.’

  He stood just on the edge of my personal space, smiling a Tom Sawyer sort of smile, the kind that could get him into, or out of, all sorts of trouble. I had no difficulty imagining that a smile like that could be Becky Thatcher’s downfall.

  In a way, it was the strength of that pull that made me hesitate. Liking Shawn was very easy, and it was against my nature to do anything the easy way.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, not entirely shutting him down. ‘If I feel like getting dressed.’

  His grin widened. ‘Don’t bother on my account.’ He managed to make me blush. Out in the truck,Addie leaned on the horn, and Shawn hurried to join her, letting the screen door bang behind him. The effect of his smile lingered behind him, like the Cheshire cat’s slowly disappearing grin.

  I let Gigi out of her crate, thinking, strangely enough, about picket fences. Believe it or not, there’s a ballet Tom Sawyer. It’s by a Russian, so I wouldn’t use it to write a book report. But my point is that Tom, with his Southern charm and boyish grin, was still a trickster. Maybe I needed to remember that.

  Shawn seemed straightforward, but his interest was … intense. I’m reasonably attractive, but Shawn was obviously the golden boy around here. Was I a novelty – score with the new girl? And why did he and the Teen Town Council welcome my arrival, while Addie seemed to view it as a personal affront?

  Then there was Rhys. I was certainly attracted, but he had no trouble irritating me, too. And what was he working on in the woods? He’d made it sound more than recreational. Or had that been just to tease me about sleeping in?

  Two men of mystery. Three if you counted my dad.

  I sighed and pulled the scrunchie out of my tangled hair. As if I had any business even thinking about guys when there were big, important things to worry about, like what I was going to do with the rest of my life, and how I was going to keep from going crazy while stuck here.

  Crazier, I mean.

  Because the thing that shook me up when Shawn mentioned ghosts wasn’t the idea that the house was haunted. It was that, just for a second, I hoped it was. If I was grasping at the supernatural for a lifeline where my sanity was concerned, I was a lot farther gone than I had thought.

  Chapter 7

  Back in the kitchen, I asked Clara how I could learn more about the Davis family history. Thinking about sanity made me think of John, and of what he’d said the night before. While I was here, maybe I should find out more about my dad and my family. And the best place to start anything was at the beginning.

  Accepting the plates I brought from the table, Clara said absently, ‘You could ask your cousin Paula. She’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know.’

  I went back for the juice glasses and Paula’s mug. ‘I was thinking more about an unbiased source. Like a book or something.’

  Clara chuckled. ‘I don’t expect you’d find anything unbiased here in the house. You could take the car up to Selma, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t have a driver’s licence.’ I’d never needed one in the city, and I’d been too busy dancing to learn for the fun of it.

  ‘Well, I’ll be happy to take you when I go in for groceries. Or you could ask Rhys to drive you, when he comes back from his trekking.’

  With a dish towel, I began drying the glasses she set on the drain board. I was hardly the domestic type, but pitching in seemed natural in Clara’s homey kitchen. ‘So, seriously. Is the guy just a nature nut or what?’

  ‘Seriously,’ she echoed, handing me another glass, her brows arched, ‘I don’t know. It’s none of my business. He said something about rock collecting, but I think he was joking. The boy’s well past the age for earning Scouting badges.’

  ‘I guess.’ I remembered him loading my luggage in the car, and how scratched up his hands were. He was definitely doing something out in the brush.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Clara as she pulled the stopper and let the sink drain. ‘There are some books in the Colonel’s study you could start with.’

  I stared at her, the towel dangling from my fingers. ‘The Colonel’s study? The colonel who’s supposed to haunt the house?’

  With an impatient sound, she took the dishrag and dried her hands. ‘Lord, don’t you start. Colonel Davis has been dead for a hundred and thirty-odd years. Lots of people have used that room since. Some men cast long shadows, that’s all.’

  But I noticed she hadn’t exactly denied the haunting part.

  I didn’t ask for permission to bring Gigi upstairs. Paula had only said she couldn’t sleep with me, not that she couldn’t come up at all.

  Gigi pranced beside me, tags jingling, while I tried to remember Paula’s quickly rattled-off orientation to the house. The landing made a U around the stairwell. To the front of the house was a suite that she planned to divide into two bedrooms. To one side was my room, and opposite me, the other guest rooms. I’d already found the French doors to the balcony this morning. Near them, down the same short hallway leading back from the landing, was the study.

  At the panelled wood door, I paused, my hand on the knob. Gigi looked up at me, cocking her head in a question.

  ‘It’s a test,’ I said. ‘If I’m crazy, then the power of suggestion will make me see something when I open this door. If there’s nothing there, then I am still in control of my senses.’

  Unless there really was such a thing as ghosts, in which case, my test proved nothing either way.

  Ghosts, Sylvie? Really?

  No, not really. But it would explain a lot.

  ‘I could stand here all day at this rate.’ And sooner or later someone was going to come by and wonder why I was standing with my face to the door, talking to myself.

  Decisively, I turned the knob. The heavy oak swung easily on well-oiled hinges. It stirred the hair that escaped my ponytail, tickling my cheek, but no other sensation came with it. I edged forward and peered in, quickly scanning the room, and found it empty of ghosts or any other apparitions.

  The breath I held ran out in relief, and I pried my fingers off the brass doorknob. ‘See?’ I told Gigi. ‘Nothing there. And nothing here.’ I tapped my forehead.

  She sniffed the air and went in, stiff-legged with curiosity. I followed, distracted for a moment by the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the walls, filled with clothand leather-bound books. Dust motes danced in the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. Heavier drapes framed the windows, faded in streaks, darker in the folds.

  It smelled like old paper and furniture polish. The flat surfaces were dust-free, and there were no cobwebs in the corners, though the paint on the ceiling cornices was yellowed with age. All but the edges of the wood floor were covered by a worn Oriental carpet, and a wingback chair and ottoman sat beside the fireplace.

  Strangely, I couldn’t picture myself curling up to read there. Despite the books and the hearth and the embroidered cushions placed in the chair, this was not an inviting spot.

  Gigi seemed to agree with me. She walked in circles, nose to the ground, but didn’t look inclined to sit and linger.

  Maybe it was the massive desk that dominated the room. The sides were carved simply, the top inlaid with a Greek-key pattern – a beautiful piece of furniture that somehow managed to be unappealing at the same time. E
verything about it said it wouldn’t be budged. And judging by the pattern of wear on the carpet, it hadn’t been moved in a long time. Maybe ever.

  I made myself sit in the desk chair. The arms were teak, darker where my hands rested, and the wood creaked softly as I lowered myself into it. The seat and back were leather, but with minimal padding. Uncompromising and uncomfortable, like the man who had sat there.

  Come on, Sylvie. Get a grip. How would you know that?

  Maybe because the Colonel’s stamp was all over the room. He didn’t have to haunt in a traditional, chain-rattling sense. Across from the desk was a glass-front case full of antique military regalia: a pair of pistols with ivory handles, a belt buckle and collection of brass buttons, and a big-brimmed cavalry hat with gold cord. A folded flag. Needless to say, it was not the Stars and Stripes.

  Defiantly, I moved a brass inkwell to the left side of the felt blotter. Take that, Colonel Davis, if you are still hanging around.

  Pulling open drawers, I rummaged for treasures of a less military nature, something that would tell me more about my ancestor. Any ancestor. The only antiques I found were a roll of twenty-nine-cent stamps and a telephone book from 1986.

  I sighed. ‘Whatever you do here, Colonel, it isn’t keeping up with correspondence.’

  I pushed myself out of the chair and went to the case of memorabilia, taking it in, though not really studying it in detail. Was this what Dad had wanted to leave behind? This glorification of a past that didn’t really bear up to scrutiny?

  My gaze fell on the wall shelf next to the case. That was sensible filing – the dusty history of the Davises, shelved beside the relics of one man’s glorious past. I pulled a book free. Cloth-bound, except for the worn leather on the spine. The pages were unevenly trimmed, so they didn’t flip smoothly as I thumbed through the thin volume. The type was old-fashioned, and I checked the publisher and date on the copyright page: University of Alabama Press, 1935.

  The Davis Family in Alabama. By William S. Davis, Esq.

  Not exactly what I’d meant by unbiased. But Clara had warned me.

  I poked around and found a few more old books: Alabama and the War Between the States, Antebellum Houses, and Southern Gardens. All from the last century, all from Southern publishers. Most with the Confederate flag featured prominently on the cover. I guessed the Colonel didn’t like any dissenting opinions in his study.

  The chair creaked, a distinctive sound, the unmistakable protest of wood. My heart thudded so hard I was surprised it didn’t bang against the book I clutched to my chest. When I spun around, I expected to see the dog getting into trouble.

  ‘Gigi?’

  I found her by her tiny, electric-motor growl. She’d been beside me already, but now she rose, her neck fluff standing straight up as she stared at the chair behind the desk, empty, yet sighing under an invisible weight.

  Chapter 8

  A cold wash of panic froze me in place. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen. What was the next step in madness? Would I see monsters? Would I snap, start raving about implants in my head and men from Mars?

  But nothing happened. I finally had to let out one lungful of air to take another, or I’d pass out. The decision to breathe spurred me past my paralysis, and I scooped up Gigi and fled the study, closing the door firmly behind me.

  As if I could close the door on my own broken mind.

  I headed for my room, thoughts bouncing around my head like rubber balls, blood zinging through my veins, senses on full alert. Except for the complete inability to focus my thoughts, being crazy felt a lot like the rush of dancing onstage.

  Shutting the door carefully, I put Gigi on my bed, numbly marvelling at how quickly she returned to her usual sunny self, exploring the rumpled covers with happy curiosity, when just seconds ago she’d been growling.

  She’d been growling. That was important somehow.

  Pulling out the chair to the writing desk, I sat down heavily as adrenaline drained the strength out of my legs. Startled to find I was still carrying the Davis family history book from the study, I placed it on the cor-ner of the desk.

  Come on, Sylvie. Stop freaking out and focus.

  I’m an abstract thinker when it comes to choreography, which is all rhythm and patterns. But my sanity was at stake here; I needed to look at things in a concrete way.

  The scent of lilacs wafted out as I opened the centre drawer. I found writing paper – perfumed, I supposed – and a pen, ready for ladylike correspondence. Placing a sheet square on the blotter, I drew a line down the middle to make a two-column list. One side said: Reasons why I might be crazy. The other said: Reasons why I might not be ready for a white coat with sleeves that buckle in back.

  On the Crazy side I wrote:

  1. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

  The Not Crazy side got this:

  1. The fact that I’m making this list.

  2. Power of suggestion + creaky, draughty house = overactive imagination.

  3. Gigi heard something too.

  I hesitated before I added that last one, because it didn’t go with the first two. She couldn’t have heard my overactive imagination, but she could have reacted to my reaction, in which case it could have gone in either column. But I didn’t want Not Crazy to be ahead by only one point. Because the point under Crazy was pretty unarguable.

  Regardless of the score, the act of writing things out had restored some of my equilibrium, like I could grip reality now that I could grip the paper.

  A tap on the door made me jump. Gigi’s growl was muffled – she’d burrowed under the covers, so I didn’t worry about hiding her. The list, however, might as well have been contraband drugs, I was so desperate to get rid of it.

  ‘Sylvie?’ Paula’s voice came clearly through the door.

  ‘Just a sec.’ What I needed was an old-fashioned secret compartment. As soon as the notion entered my head, my hand went unerringly to the bottom of the centre drawer. A tiny latch opened a panel underneath. The paper crumpled as I shoved it in but the compartment clicked firmly closed.

  With a quick glance to make sure Gigi was out of sight, I went to let in my cousin. But I moved too fast, coming down hard on my right leg just before I swung open the door.

  Paula was dressed in the same crisp khakis and button-down shirt she’d worn at breakfast. She’d already drawn a breath to speak, but when she looked me up and down, she obviously changed whatever she was about to say. ‘Good heavens, girl. What is the matter with you?’

  ‘Foot fell asleep,’ I said, with a very real grimace. ‘Took me a minute to get out of the chair.’

  She gave me a doubtful look. ‘I’m guessing that’s not all that was asleep. I’ve been calling you for ten minutes. Clara is making lunch.’

  ‘Lunch?’ I looked at the clock on the bedside table. ‘I guess time got away from me.’ At least my mother had taught me a few useful things, like how a little spindoctoring could save a world of trouble. And I knew what would please Paula, so I pointed to the book on the desk. ‘I was reading some family history.’

  Her brows winged upward, and she entered without invitation to pick up the book. ‘Did you get this from the study?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not. I’m happy you’re taking an interest.’ She laid the book down, then sat at the desk, straightening the pen on the blotter. I kept my eyes resolutely off the drawer.

  ‘Have a seat, Sylvie. Let’s have a little chat.’

  Crap. Nothing good was going to come of a start like that. What had I done? Had she figured out I’d brought Gigi upstairs – twice? Eyeing the quiet lump under the covers, I sat in the upholstered chair so Paula’s back would be to the bed.

  ‘Clara told me you had trouble sleeping last night.’ She stared at the wall, just over my shoulder, as if the subject were awkwardly personal. ‘Something about a nightmare?’

  ‘Just a dream. Strange place. The wind.’ I tried not to sound de
fensive about the fact that my every quirk was under scrutiny. Maybe this was ironic, since no one was scrutinizing me harder than me. But damn it, I’d just stepped my panic down a notch, and now the knot in my chest was twisting tight again.

  ‘Are you going to report that back to Mother and Dr Steve?’ I challenged.

  The briefest flash of guilt on Paula’s face convinced me I wasn’t overreacting. The step-shrink had definitely said something to her. I had to clench my hands on my knees to hold back my anger, which edged out fear by a narrow margin.

  Paula shook her head, showing me the magnolia rather than the steel. For now. ‘I’m not reporting anything to them,’ she said. ‘But I do know you’ve been under a lot of stress. And I just want you to know, you can tell me anything.’

  Her earnest gravity forced me to bite back my hot retort. Paula was going on what Mother and Dr Steve had told her. For all I knew he could have warned her I might snap at any time, do a Lizzie Borden number some night. Like my real shrink would let me wander free if that were a possibility.

  I caught a breath of lilac, which reminded me of my list and that Not Crazy was ahead at the moment. I needed to act like it, or I would be in trouble. If they were watching me, I was going to have to be careful and guard my reactions. Which might be paranoia, and have to go in the Crazy column. I unclenched my teeth and choked out, ‘Thanks, Cousin Paula. I know you want what’s best for me.’

  Everyone wanted what was best for me, which was a completely different thing from wanting me to be happy.

  She pressed her lips together like she wanted to say more. It was the expression of someone who was choosing her battles, and my sullen tone was apparently a fight she was going to let slide. ‘Fine,’ she said, as if that settled it. ‘Now let’s talk about what you’re going to do with the rest of your day.’

  That was not what I expected her to say. ‘Um, I thought I would read my book, then maybe walk to town.’

  ‘Oh, honey, you can’t walk to town.’