Joan Smith (11 page)

Sappho stopped in the second afternoon about three and invited me into town with her. She looked stunning in a simple black dress, very tight to show off her well-toned body, and short to reveal her shapely legs. She was wearing red sandals. A black kerchief with white polka dots the size of half dollars hid her hair, but revealed enormous gypsy earrings.

“I’ll show you the best places to shop,” she said. “You want to avoid the tourist traps on the main street. Their prices are exorbitant in the summer."

“It sounds tempting, but I’m pretty busy at the moment, Sappho. Thanks anyway for the offer.” I could hardly take my eyes from my work, even to thank her.

Undismayed and uninvited, she sat down at the table, picked up a sheet, and began glancing at what I had written. “Emily mentioned you’re doing an article on Vanejul and Arabella,” she said. “Must be a long article.”

“It seems to be turning into a novel. It’s just loosely based on the story, since I couldn’t find out much about her.”

She lifted her witch black eyes from the page and smiled coolly. “So I see. I suggest you not use the names Vanejul and Arabella at all. You’re quite off the track, to judge by this bit.” She tossed the page aside.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t given this much thought, Belle. This tragedy occurred in the early eighteen hundreds, when girls were reared like nuns. They weren’t allowed out unchaperoned. You know what Vanejul was like.” Her eyes slid to the paperback I’d bought in Lyndhurst. “You’ve read his poetry. He despised women. In every poem the woman jilts him, and he takes revenge. He was a rake.”

“That’s not how it was!” I said angrily.

“That’s obviously not how you think it was. A biographer shouldn’t fall in love with her subject. It distorts her objectivity. Arabella’s guardian wouldn’t have let a man like Vanejul within a country mile of her.”

“Are you saying they never met?”

“No, they lived near each other. I think Vanejul was probably chasing after her. When she paid no attention to him, he arranged one of his little tricks, the sort of thing he did so well in Italy. He lured her to a quiet spot and had his way with her. He always took what he wanted. After he’d raped her, he could hardly set her free. That’s why he drowned her and fled to Greece.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I scoffed, but she had cast a shadow on my hero.

His later poems did reveal a deep-seated dislike of women. His conversation had reinforced it. When I asked him if he loved Arabella, he had said something about “until she would not let me love her.” What did that mean? And when he opened the locket he said, “Light and dark, a symbol of our natures. I, it hardly needs saying, was the dark one.” Other fragments of our conversation echoed inside my head. “Who cares how she died? We all must die.” Surely that was not the voice of love speaking. If he had killed her as Sappho said, naturally he would not want me to harp on it.

When I tuned back in to the present, Sappho was gazing at the locket. “Did Emily give you that?” she asked sharply.

Since she had recognized it, I had to admit how I had come by it. “She lent it to me.”

“And filled your head with her notions of clairvoyance. There’s a difference between clairvoyance and imagining. Poor Emily. She’s really past it. Well, if you don’t want to go shopping, I’ll be off. Think about what I told you, Belle,” she said, with a pat on my shoulder. Then she picked up her big black patent purse and went out, leaving her poison behind her.

I couldn’t help thinking about it. What she had suggested was not implausible by any means. She had tarnished Vanejul’s luster for me. I began examining his writings with a more critical eye, wondering...Then I examined my own story. Had I been whitewashing Vanejul’s behavior? Perhaps what troubled me most of all was Sappho’s charge that I was falling in love with my subject. The visit put me off my stride. Before I returned to work, the phone rang. It was Emily.

“How are you coming along with your story, Belle?” she asked.

I told her about Sappho’s visit, and its effect on my writing.

“Pay her no heed. Just wear the locket and listen to your heart. I suppose Sappho saw the locket?”

“Yes.”

“She must wonder why I gave you such a valuable thing. She knows, of course, that I’m psychic. I had my reasons,” she said mysteriously. “I only hope I did the right thing.”

We talked a little longer. Mollie had told her she was staying with me. “If you’re frightened there at night, I’ll send my dog over to guard you.”

I pictured a Doberman pinscher, and felt I’d rather take my chances with a burglar. “What kind of dog is it?”

“Beezle’s a poodle. He wouldn’t hurt a flea, but he has a good loud bark. He’d alert you if you had a prowler. I’ll ask Henry to delivery him. He’s bringing me some vegetables from his farm this afternoon.”

I knew I couldn’t impose on Mollie all summer, and thanked Emily for the loan of Beezle. A small dog would be company.

Henry Thorndyke delivered the poodle later that afternoon in a truck that looked about fifty years old. Emily had sent some cans of dog food, a feeding schedule, and a basket for Beezle to sleep in. Beezle wasn’t clipped into strange puffs and balls, but wore a full, curly coat of hair. He seemed to be friendly. I played with him for a while, to become acquainted.

I tried to write, but no inspiration came. Sappho had done her job too well. I spent an hour cleaning the house, washing dishes, dusting, trying to exorcize the demons in my mind. When I could find no more dust or dirty dishes, I decided to take Beezle out for a walk.

When Mollie returned around six, we had dinner together, and caught up on the day’s doings.

“Sappho dropped in. Oh, and Emily called.” I told her about the trouble I was having with my writing after Sappho’s visit.

“You look peaky, dear. Why don’t you go upstairs and have a lie-down. I’ll clean up after dinner.”

I didn’t come back downstairs that night. At about ten, Mollie came up to see if I was all right. She insisted on heating a can of soup for me. I ate half of it, then felt so tired, I just turned out the light and went back to sleep. I had a horrible night of tossing and turning and dreaming. In my dream, I was looking for Vanejul.

I was in a dark labyrinth, a sort of maze of passageways and blind alleys, made of soaring, funereal yews. Sharp branches clutched at my gown and pricked my bare arms as I scurried along the endless corridors, looking for Vanejul. I wore a long, white gown, and as if in two places, I could look down from above and see myself, hurrying like a mouse through the maze. Yet my view from above was no help in negotiating the twists and turns of the passage.

At times I caught a glimpse of Vanejul, who would look over his shoulder, to see I was following. I could not tell whether he was luring me on or trying to escape me. He would seem to hesitate at corners, as if to wait for me, but when I hurried forward, he was gone. Once I thought I had him. He turned another corner, and when I reached it, I saw it was one of the blind alleys. But when I looked all around, he was nowhere to be seen. He had magically evaporated into thin air.

The yews grew densely together, right to the ground. He could not have crawled through the hedge to another corridor. I stopped in frightened confusion. My heart, or my conscience, said in an imperious voice,
This is what comes of chasing after phantoms.
It was not so much a warning as an indictment. I had broken some divine law, and was condemned to spend eternity in this dark maze.

Then the voice faded, and from the other side of the yew hedge, I heard Vanejul’s low chuckle. He was not laughing at me. The teasing quality of his laughter suggested he was with a woman, and I was consumed with a burning rage. Then another voice spoke, a soft voice, in that same teasing way. The rage withered to frustration, to despair. He was with Sappho!

“Raventhorpe!” I called through the hedge. “Come and save me. I’m lost. It’s Arabella. Come. Come away. Raventhorpe. Raventhorpe.” My wails diminished to a whine.

I felt a light jostling on my arm, and when I opened my eyes, Mollie’s worried face was gazing down at me.

“Wake up, Belle. You’re having a bad dream,” she said. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. Just toast and an egg. Are you all right?”

She had raised the blinds, or I had forgotten to close them. Daylight flooded the blue room. It danced on the counterpane and made my head ache.

“I’m all right. Thanks, Mollie.”

She felt my forehead and shook her head. “I don’t like to leave you.”

“Don’t be silly. You have to go to work. I’ll be fine.”

She left, and I ate the toast and egg. The coffee didn’t tempt me. My face was flushed, and I had a wretched headache. While I ate, I tried to make sense of my dream. It was all bound up with Sappho’s theory, of course. I was chasing through the shadowed corridors of time after the truth about Vanejul. The other voice was Sappho’s, and perhaps the third austere voice from above was common sense, or my conscience warning me away from these otherworldly doings.

What I could not fathom was Vanejul’s ambiguous behavior. Was he urging me on, or was he trying to escape? I wished he would come to me again. Then I would know what he wanted.

What
he
wanted? Surely it was what Arabella wanted that I should care about. That was why I was writing the story. Hers was the hand that guided me. Had I let him into my head, despite Mollie’s warning? Worse, had I let him into my heart? I felt such an intense longing to see him, to hear him call me “my pet,” in that possessive way.

I dragged myself out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs. The phone rang almost the minute I got down. It was Emily. Clairvoyant or not, she had the knack of calling when I needed her most. I told her about my crazy dream and what I thought it meant.

“It is the voice from above that is more interesting,” she said. “Your conscience, of course. You are feeling guilty for dabbling in the unknown. The decision is yours, Belle. If you are uncomfortable with it, then by all means desist, or you’ll make yourself ill.”

“I can’t betray Arabella,” I said simply.

“Excellent! Then taking to your bed is only an excuse to delay the inevitable. If you want the truth, ask Vanejul when he comes back.”

“If he comes back.”

“Oh, I think he’ll be back now.” Her voice sounded so certain.

I thought he would be back, too. “Thanks, Emily.”

“The only thanks I want is for you to carry on with your work.”

“I don’t seem to have much choice.”

Chapter Twelve

Slowly I worked my way back into the mood, and the story. When Mollie called at noon and heard I had recovered, she decided she would return to her own house that night.

“Will you be all right?” she asked, concerned.

“I’ll be fine. I have Beezle to protect me.”

“I don’t mean ordinary intruders. I mean Vanejul.”

“That’s all right, Mollie. I’m not afraid of a ghost.” How I longed to see him!

I made a final dinner to serve Mollie that evening when she came to collect her things. She left right after dinner. I brought Beezle in from the yard for company later on. We were developing a routine; he was outdoors during the day, and in the evening he came inside. I had a strong premonition that Vanejul would come, and I was not disappointed. It was about eleven o’clock. I was in the living room, relaxing after my day’s work, when I saw a shimmer in the mirror, and looking to discover its source, I watched as Vanejul materialized.

“Where have you been?” I demanded, like a petulant wife.

He tossed up his hands. “Here, there, around and about. Did you miss me, my pet? Perhaps that’s why I have stayed away. Absence, you know, is said to make the heart grow fonder—usually of someone else, in my experience.”

“I have been wanting to discuss the book with you,” I replied, trying to quell the thrill at hearing that familiar “my pet.”

Beezle began growling and circling Vanejul. It is impossible to know what he saw or felt, but something raised his hackles. I watched as Vanejul reached out and stroked him. The growls subsided, and Beezle uttered a low whine of pleasure.

“I have a way with animals,” Vanejul said, inordinately pleased with himself. Then he cocked his head boldly and added, “Are you not going to say four-legged animals, Belle, in your missish way? It is unlike you to miss a chance to denigrate me.”

It seemed ridiculous to even consider this charmer having to resort to rape. Ladies, I felt sure, fell into his lap. I did want to discover what I could of the past, however, and asked his opinion of William, his rival.

He shrugged. “I disliked him cordially, and was jealous as a green cow of his proximity—physical proximity only—to Arabella. Mentally and emotionally, they were leagues apart. He was a cipher, ruled by his very ambitious father. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious about how things were in the old days, your likes and dislikes.”

He gazed deeply into my eyes. “You know what I liked, Belle,” he said, in a voice as soft and rich as cream.

A warm flush flowed through me. “I know you liked women. What sort of men friends did you have?”

“Regular men. I was closest to my cousin, Hubert Almquist. Why are we discussing my feelings for men? Is it a circuitous way of inquiring about my relationship with women? You don’t have to be sly with me, Belle. Give me the questions with no bark on them.”

“I want to know, for the book.”

“This is beginning to sound like a demmed dull book. Men were fellows to talk to about the government and money and literature and our tailors. And of course, the most interesting thing of all—ladies. I was used to hunt and whore with the McDowall brothers, before I met Arabella. Does it surprise you that I admit it?”

“Your wanton ways are no secret, Vanejul.”

A scowl creased his brow. “I wish you would not call me that. As you are commending me for my frankness, let there be no secrets between us. I never was much good at discretion anyhow.” He spoke openly of his sins, not boasting, exactly, but not discreetly either.