Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (141 page)

“In the sunroom.”

“I’ll go talk to her.”

I went back with him.

“Caroline?” he called.

“Here, sitting in pitch black.”

“Bit of a nuisance, isn’t it?”

“A scandal, that’s what. The taxes we pay!”

“I’ve called — ”

“What did they say?”

“They’re bending every effort.”

“Screw them.”

“Well, it’s quite a storm, Caroline.”

“This is the twentieth century,” she retorted. “And the taxes we pay.”

“Do you have any candles?”

“I told you to bring some! Didn’t you bring some?”

“Just one,” he said. “All we could spare. The most we could dig up was this one and one other. You must agree we wanted a little light on the subject too, Caroline. This will have to do you for now.”

“Well, light it, for God’s sake,” she said testily. “What are you waiting for?”

“Looking for something to put it on,” he said mildly. “I don’t suppose you’d care to have candlewax all over your surfaces.” But he found something on which to set it, and suddenly there was the soft, flickering light of a taper piercing the dark.

“It’s better than nothing,” he said in a kind of defensive way. “You must have candles about. Where’s Claire?”

“Due back in about an hour. If she can get here in this downpour.”

“John?”

“I don’t need John in the evening hours,” she said viciously. “He drives the car and tends the gardens. It’s not driving weather nor is it gardening weather. John, I presume, is in some bar soaking it up, or else home in bed.”

“They work for you, they should be available,” Garry said.

“Why? I don’t pay them to light candles!”

“Still — ”

“Oh, do stop going on! If you can’t get us out of this — ”

“I’ll try to dig up some candles,” he said. “There must be some in the kitchen, or pantry.”

“The best of luck,” she said, vicious-sweet. “I don’t cotton to going to bed in the dark.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he answered, and left us.

Caroline sputtered. In the candlelight her face was angry and frustrated. “Here we are, left in the near dark and where
is
everyone? Where’s Emily, to whom I pay an exorbitant salary? And where, pray, is Tony? You and I seem to be the only sane persons left in an insane world!”

She snapped out, “Go see where they all
are!
This is fantastic. The two of us sitting all alone like this, deserted.”

“Okay,” I said calmly. “I’ll find them. I won’t be long. You’re right, I must agree. They should certainly be more concerned about you, Caroline.”

“They certainly should,” she said angrily, and I left her snorting infuriatedly.

The walk through the dark, empty rooms was disconcerting. I could see virtually nothing. It was like finding my way through a labyrinth. I walked from one room to the next, gained the central hall, and found the stairs. They loomed ahead, precipitous and gloomy. I climbed carefully, feeling my way and clutching the banister. “Hello,” I called. “Emily? Tony, are you there?”

I thought I was sure to come across Garry, that he must be somewhere about. If he couldn’t find candles in the kitchen, he’d try the second story. I said, “Mr. Lestrange … are you there?”

But no one answered at all. I said again, this time annoyed, “Hello there, where
is
everybody?”

I had my hand on the railing, going up the stairs, and I was counting the steps automatically, though I had never thought to figure out how many steps there were. But it was something to do, as I went up in the dark. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen …

I must be near the top now. “Hello,” I called again, and in the thick, storm-wrought darkness a powerful force came out from nowhere and flattened me. There was no warning. Just a sudden crash on the back of my neck, near the base of my skull, incredibly painful but more astonishingly unexpected; a burst of light behind my eyeballs, a knockout blinding of my mind, so that the surprise was short-lived, and even the sensation of agony mercifully brief.

I plunged into velvet depths, with pinwheels going around in colored circles, and then I knew nothing at all.

I was so surprised to see him, because I had thought he was dead, but there he was, sitting on a bench in the Staadtspark, right under the whimsical, pearline statue of Johann Strauss. The marble musician, holding his delicately-carved violin, seemed so fitting a framework for Schubert, as he lolled on the rustic seat below, that I was inordinately pleased.

How life mimics art!

Naturally I spoke. I didn’t hesitate for more than a second: I just thought, I wouldn’t give more than a passing glance to most celebrities, but Schubert … well, that was another matter. I stopped on the leafy path and nodded respectfully to him. He looked up affably, and his oddly-cut eyeglasses glinted in the sun.

“Please forgive me,” I said. “It’s just such a pleasure for me. I’ve been in love with you — I mean with your music — for a very long time. Since I was a little girl. So may I just say hello, and thank you for all the joy you’ve given me, and then I’ll leave you to your thoughts, Herr Schubert.”

“Ah, call me Franz,” he said, cordially. “And how nice of you to go out of your way to give me compliments. It doesn’t happen very often, I must admit.”

He gestured. “But won’t you sit down,
fräulein
?”

I did, flushed and excited. He turned in his seat and faced me. “What brings you to Vienna?” he asked.

“Everyone has to go at least once to Vienna before they die.”

He laughed. “You’re pretty young to be talking of dying,
gnä’ fräulein
.”

“Just a figure of speech,” I said.

He gazed eagerly at me. “You … I believe you said you had been in love with me — with my music, that is — for quite a long time.”

“Oh yes,” I said, and flushed again. “Maybe with you too, Herr Schubert … not just the music.”

He looked disbelieving. “What? Such a beautiful young lady.” His laugh this time was a little forced. “Beautiful young ladies fall in love with handsome young men.”

I contradicted him earnestly. “Love is cerebral, don’t you think? Your brain falls in love and then the body responds. That’s the way it is with me.”

“I am afraid you are just a little bit unusual.” He sighed. “I haven’t been lucky enough to find many girls like that.”

“I’m sure it’s because you care more for your music,” I told him. “And then too, Herr Schubert — ”

“I humbly beg that you call me Franz,” he insisted.

A few minutes only, and already on a first name basis with the great Franz Schubert. Would wonders never cease?

“Franz,” I said, savoring the feel of the name on my tongue. “Franz … thank you. What was I saying? Oh yes, I was about to add that you have the reputation of a — please, don’t misunderstand me! I don’t mean a reveler — but I’ve heard that you’re fond of the coffee houses, and that perhaps wine and song mean more to you than women.”

He nodded, partially agreeing. “True,” he concurred. “I like very much
gemütlichkeit
, the new wine, and a
heurige
under the stars. And the company of — ”

There was a kind of shamed giggle. “Ah well … maybe not very respectable gentlemen.”

I said, daringly, “Perhaps not very respectable
fräuleins
also, Franz?”

His glasses flashed with his broad smile. “About that we will say no more.”

We regarded each other affectionately. I was in seventh heaven. His music was ringing in my ears. I wanted to hum it aloud, let him know that I was familiar with every note he had written. Let him know how much I adored him.

Then he looked at his watch. I immediately became self-conscious. “But I’m keeping you,” I said, rising. “Please forgive me for — ”

“For what?” he asked, rising also. “For being kind to old Franz?”

“Kind!” I exclaimed, going pale. “Kind. Good heavens, don’t you realize … why, ever since I was a child … kind!”

He beamed with pleasure. “Are you busy?” he asked.

“Busy?”

“I simply mean, if you are not meeting some handsome young gentleman, would you care to accompany me to the house of the Dreimäderl. For coffee with whipped cream, and strudel, or perhaps, if we are lucky, Sacher torte.”

“Those haughty girls?” I said. “They weren’t very nice to you.” I noticed that I had switched tenses, and became somewhat confused.

“Why should they be nice?” the composer said. “I’m not a comely man.”

“But those indifferent sisters … they should have
… should
know better. You’re a genius.”

“Oh no,” he said modestly. “I just make pretty tinklings.”

He reached for my hand.

• • •

The pain in my head rocketed as I opened my eyes and bile came into my throat. My mouth filled with a gush of thin water, which immediately spilled from between my lips as I struggled to sit up. “Oh, do forgive me,” I said thickly. “Not to worry, I’m not upchucking. It’s just some bilish water … too many aspirins, I expect … I’ve had this reaction before.”

Agonized, I fell back. “My frigging head,” I cried raggedly.

“Whoa there,” a voice said.

“Where am I?” I insisted.

Then my eyes focussed; Tony Cavendish was bending over me. His face was rather eerie and wavering, and then I knew why. I was seeing him by candlelight.

“You gave us such a fright,” he said.

My confused mind, which had instinctively placed me in a hospital, knew it was not so. I was in one of Caroline’s guest bedrooms, the one with the round window, and some of the watery spill from my mouth had stained the beautiful coverlet.

“I see Garry found some candles,” I said.

“Um hum. How do you feel, love?”

“Lousy. Someone hit me.”

But I took one of his hands and held it to my cheek. The dream was on me, the sentimental dream. Schubert … I had always held Schubert dear to my heart. Then suddenly the dream was gone, and the confusion was gone. Schubert wasn’t there, but Tony was.

“Tony,” I said softly, and his head bent to me, and I raised my lips.

“The doctor wishes to see Miss Stewart,” Emily’s voice said, breaking into the interrupted kiss.

I opened my eyes again. “What doctor?” I demanded.

And then a man came to the bedside and looked down at me. His voice was hearty, and rang false, the way doctors’ voices so often do. You’re terminal, and they assure you you have endless years to live. “Good evening, young lady,” he said. “Where’d you hurt yourself?”

“Hurt myself?” I was contemptuous. “I don’t make it a practice to cosh myself on the head, doctor. Someone beaned me.”

He smiled tolerantly. “Dear, it was pitch dark and you ran into some obstacle. It could happen to anyone. Where does it hurt?”

“In the back,” I said coldly. “I deliberately ran backwards and masochistically hit myself, with some
obstacle
, just below the cerebellum.”

“Dearie me,” he said jocularly. “Cerebellum, ta da, ta da, ta da. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

“Forgive me,” I said caustically. “I realize only doctors are
au courant
with anatomy. Sorry, very sorry. I didn’t mean to sound intelligent, how crass of me.”

“Take it easy,” he said, gently now. “Honey, whatever happened to you, you certainly gave yourself quite a whack. You’ve got a lump the size of an Easter egg.”

He felt, gingerly, to my discomfort and pain. Then he straightened up. “I’ll want ice on this at half hour intervals,” he ordered. “Keep it up for several hours.”

“If the electricity is off, where am I to get ice?” I asked.

He looked disconcerted. “All right, then, let the water run good and cold and apply it with a washcloth. And now you’re to get up and not sleep for a few hours. If you’re concussed, sleep is contraindicated. Just keep the circulation moving for a while. Got that, honey?”

“What about the pain?” I asked sweetly. “Must I grin and bear it?”

“Pretty bad, eh?”

“Crucifying.”

“Here you go.” He picked up his physician’s kit and fished inside. “These will help. Two now, one every four hours. I’ll be around in the morning. You’ll be all right. You’re probably concussed, but you’re young and resilient.”

“I suppose I am, but I would dearly like to know who socked me.”

Once more he gave me that amused, forbearing look. “Oh, well,” he said, “this weather has me in a tizzy too. You’ll be fine.”

He whacked me on the rump before departing. “See you about ten tomorrow,” he said, and went out briskly, swinging his little black bag.

Tony was very nice, very helpful. After a light supper, when Caroline went off to bed, he kept me company in my enforced wakefulness. When he saw me getting drowsy he snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Wake up,” he said. “You don’t want to die of a subdural hematoma, do you?”

“Where did you pick up that medicalese?”

“From your American television shows.”

“Subdural. For heaven’s sake, it’s only a little concussion. And that business about not succumbing to sleep when you’re concussed is old hat, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Our American television shows. Good heavens, the things I’ve learned from those doctor series! No one ever has appendicitis. It’s always leukemia, Tay-Sachs, sickle cell anemia, glomerula nephritis or lupus erythematosis. So I certainly know when a treatment is out of date.”

“Nonetheless, it’s time for a cold water pack again.”

All this was by candlelight. The tapers were flickering and wavering and I thought, imagine Abraham Lincoln doing his homework under such hazy illumination, poor thing. I remembered the last blackout in Manhattan, when the whole city was plunged into darkness, and I told Tony about it. “And you know what?” I said. “There was no crime that night. No crime!”

Then I sat back and thought that the candlelight went some long way toward softening the shock of that attack in the dark, the blow that landed on my skull and sent me careening into unconsciousness. Somehow, the soft glow made it seem distant and unreal, like a dream, really.

Or a nightmare.

Caroline appeared suddenly, in a silken peignoir the color of the sky. Idly, I thought that garment set her back a few hundred dollars, and then I started scolding her.