Stranger by the Lake (12 page)

“I can find my way back on my own,” I retorted.

Craig Stanton shook his head, giving me the disgusted look one gives a tiresome child.

“Come along,” he said impatiently.

I drew myself up, mustering all the dignity at my command, and started to walk through an opening in the trees. “This way!” he snapped, jerking his head. He walked back down the shore, turning to make sure I was following. I could barely see him in the mists. He turned into the woods, and I saw that there was a wide pathway leading back up to the lawns, a path I hadn't been aware of before. I had come through the trees, not knowing of this far simpler method of reaching the lake. I trudged through patches of moonlight and shadow, keeping an eye on Craig's back. I was really quite relieved that he was there, although I would have gone to the stake before admitting it to him.

He stepped out of the woods, waiting for me to catch up with him, and we walked up the lawn toward the gardens, Craig beside me, still silent and irritated. I could see Gordonwood, an immense dark shape against the night, the windows of the downstairs rooms glowing like warm golden squares. Craig walked on ahead of me through the gardens, passing the fragrant rosebeds and the broken white marble column where I had stood musing earlier. Craig moved up the flat marble steps to the terrace, and I followed, stumbling on the second step. There was a loud crack, and the heel of my shoe gave way, snapping completely off and flying away.

“Damn!” I cried, almost falling.

“What is it now?” he asked angrily.

“I've lost my heel!” I snapped.

“Pity,” he replied. “Life is full of these little tragedies.”

“Damn you,” I muttered. “I could have fallen and broken my neck. You might at least help me look for the heel.”

“It'll be there in the morning.”

I hobbled onto the terrace and sat down on the chaise longue, pulling off both my shoes. He stood with hands in pockets, watching me. Candlelight poured out through the opened French windows, staining the tiles with soft yellow light. I stood up in my stocking feet, holding both shoes in my hand and glaring at Craig Stanton.

“These shoes happen to have cost a small fortune,” I said nastily. “Not that it would matter in the least to you.”

“Not in the least,” he replied pleasantly. “You ready to come inside now?”

I followed him into the drawing room and walked on into the hall while he paused to close the windows and lock them. Setting the shoes down on the table, I picked up my oil lamp, the flame still burning under its round glass shade. Moving briskly up the stairs, I reached the landing before he caught up with me. He took the lamp out of my hand, shoved me aside, and led the way on up to the main hall above. I was furious at his rudeness, too furious to speak. He strolled down the hall, holding the lamp aloft, and turned the corner and moved on down the narrow hall leading to my room. My stockinged feet rustled on the carpets, making a crisp, scratchy sound as I hurried to keep up with him.

We passed the east wing, cold air eddying out into the hall, and Craig opened the door to my room and stepped inside, setting the lamp down on the dressing table.

“Here you are,” he said, “safe and sound. I hope you have enough sense to stay put for the rest of the night.”

“Thank you ever so much,” I replied sweetly. “You've been kind and considerate and frightfully gallant.”

Craig smiled. It was a warm smile, dazzling in its impact. His good looks were overwhelming in these close quarters, and I felt a little apprehensive. He glanced at me and glanced at the bed and then glanced back at me again. The smile grew broader, playing merrily on his lips, and his dark blue eyes had a mischievous twinkle.

“Don't I get a reward?” he asked.

“I'm not asking you in for a nightcap,” I said, “if that's what you're thinking.”

“I'm already in,” he said lightly.

“And I suggest you get
out
.”

He chuckled to himself, his eyes dancing. The room seemed so small, and he was so close. I stood rigidly with my arms folded across my waist, trying not to show my nervousness. Craig leaned over and touched my cheek, his fingers stroking the flesh with a gentle rub. I drew back, disturbed. He clicked his tongue and shook his head, moving away from me.

“You really
are
nervous,” he said. “Exactly like one of the girls in your books.”

“I wish you'd stop referring to my books.”

“They're charming, and so are you. Exasperating—but charming nevertheless. Good night, Susan. I'll look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

He left, and I had a wild impulse to call him back. I didn't want him to go, I realized, even though I had been in a nervous panic all the while he stood here in the room. I had been so sure about my indifference to the man, and yet … he wasn't at all like Eric, not at all like Reggie. He was infuriating, rude, insufferable, but so devastatingly handsome. I touched my cheek where his fingers had stroked it, and there was a rich elation inside me, as though someone had just given me a beautifully wrapped present. It was a long time before I closed the bedroom door and started preparing for bed.

Later, in my melon-pink cotton clown pajamas and a quilted pink robe, I set the lamp on the bedside table and took out the historical novel I had been reading the night before. Sleep would be impossible for a long time, and I decided I might as well finish the book. Crawling under the covers, I took up the book and sat up against the pillows, but I couldn't concentrate on the print before me. Too much had happened. I closed the book and watched the warm yellow light that danced on the wall as the lamp spluttered.

Craig Stanton had such a forceful personality that my encounter with him had almost driven the earlier encounter with Charlie from my mind. The man had aroused emotions so strong that they eclipsed anything else, overshadowing the panic and frustration I had felt with Charlie. Now, for the first time, I put aside all thoughts about Craig and considered what had occurred before he arrived on the scene.

I thought about Charlie. Surely he was insane. I couldn't make heads or tails out of his incoherent babbling. Something about a plot, something about not wanting me to get hurt. Charlie must live in a fantasy world full of mad delusions, I told myself, thinking of his frightened expression. He probably had a persecution complex, probably believed the whole world was in league against him, yet he had seemed so
sincere
in his efforts to tell me whatever it was. I shuddered as I recalled my fright when he first came toward me. Charlie might not be so harmless after all, I reasoned, remembering his remarkable strength and the way he had seized me. If Craig hadn't come along when he did … the incident confused me. Toward the last I had been certain that Charlie meant no harm, but I couldn't be sure he wouldn't have turned on me after he spilled out the rest of his mad babblings.

I frowned. No, Charlie hadn't meant to harm me. He had looked so vulnerable, so young. He had come to Gordonwood to tell me something, and he had been frightened out of his wits. I tried to remember his exact words, but I couldn't. They had been spoken too quickly, too incoherently. There was a puzzle in my mind, but I couldn't put the pieces together. The conversation I had overheard at the inn, the mysterious actress who had been Charlie's friend, the note he had slipped under my door, Gordonwood, the manuscripts, Althea's remarks at dinner—they were all pieces of the puzzle, and I tried to assemble them into a clear picture. It was a futile effort. Something seemed to gnaw at the back of my mind, and there was a vague alarm, an uneasiness, as though I were overlooking something frightfully obvious.

I blew out the lamp and snuggled down under the covers, still trying to put my finger on what it was that bothered' me. Charlie had been so intense, and I had covered up for him. I hadn't let Craig know I had seen the boy. I had pretended to be all alone there by the mausoleum. Something had warned me not to mention the incident, and I had followed my instincts. I thoroughly intended to go to the inn tomorrow, even if it was a fool's errand. I had to know what it was Charlie had been trying to tell me. Perhaps then I could solve the puzzle.

I closed my eyes, but sleep eluded me. I found myself listening for noises in the house. Absurd, I told myself, and yet I gripped the covers tightly and strained to hear any unusual sounds. Naturally I thought about the east wing, so near by, and the shadowy form in the doorway. I kept telling myself that I wasn't afraid, of course not, a grown woman isn't afraid of the dark, yet I gave a start at every creak and groan of the old house. I thought I heard footsteps moving down the stairs outside my room, just as I had heard them in the morning when I was hanging up my dresses. Nonsense, it was merely my imagination. I must stop this.…

Eventually, I slipped into a state of semiconsciousness, not really awake, not quite asleep, and I seemed to hear Charlie say, “Now you're in danger, too,” and the words seemed to echo over and over. Tossing restlessly on the pillows, I finally went to sleep, only to be awakened by a loud thumping noise in the hall. I sat up, shivering, and heard the scratching at my door, followed by a low whine that sent cold chills up my spine. It took me a full minute to realize what the noise was, and then I got out of bed and threw open the door. Earl came bounding into the room with joyful yelps. He wasn't half as glad to see me as I was to see him. I scolded him and made him settle down and finally persuaded him to lie down on the floor at the foot of my bed. He minded beautifully, content just to be with me. I climbed back under the covers, terribly pleased that he had come. I would sleep much better now.

CHAPTER SIX

I awoke at the crack of eleven thirty, outrageously late, admittedly, but I had forgotten to set the alarm and Aunt Agatha had kindly permitted me this one morning of wicked indulgence. Earl was gone, but a saucy young blonde in short black uniform and frilly white apron stood at the foot of the bed, balancing a tray on one hand, the other resting on her hip. The rattle of dishes had awakened me. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. There was the rich, heavenly fragrance of coffee, a glorious smell at this time of day.

“I'm Mary, ma'am,” the girl said pertly. “The old girl—I mean, Lady Agatha says this isn't going to become a
habit
, but I should take up some coffee just this once and see that you get up.”

She tossed her head, short, corkscrew blonde curls bouncing. She was a pleasant-looking girl, just chubby enough to fill out the uniform with a decided aplomb. Her bright pink mouth was small and sassy, her large blue eyes surrounded by long, sooty-black lashes. She was the kind of girl men liked to reach out and pinch, I decided, and the kind of girl who would undoubtedly adore such bawdy treatment.

“Hello, Mary,” I said, yawning.

“She says I should tell you it's
sinful
to sleep this late.
She
's been up since six.”

“Bless her heart,” I replied, rather grumpily.

Mary set the tray on the bedside table, making an unnecessary amount of racket I thought, cringing. The sound of dishes clattering isn't exactly pleasant when one has just struggled into consciousness. Mary marched over to the French windows and jerked open the jade-green draperies. Shatteringly bright sunshine poured into the room. That didn't help either. I glared at the girl, wishing I had something to throw at her. She was definitely a menace.

“I've read
all
your books,” she said, hand on hip. “You're my very favorite writer.”

I had misjudged her, of course. She was an enchanting creature. Not only did she have remarkably good taste, but she was intelligent as well. I would gladly have hopped out of bed to kiss her hand, but Mary merely gave an indifferent shrug and marched out of the room, leaving me with the firm conviction that life was beautiful and all merits justly rewarded. I poured steaming hot coffee into a thick blue cup and lifted a silver lid to find a flaky, buttery sweet roll.

After this decidedly luxurious breakfast, I took a long time dressing. I was never able to hustle after getting up, but this morning I was deliberately slow, carefully selecting what I should wear. I finally decided on a pair of slender brown and burnt-orange checked slacks and a burnt orange turtleneck sweater. I might not be able to wear the wraithlike garments that hung on the fashion models, but I could certainly wear a sweater, and wear it well. Standing before the mirror, I turned this way and that, admiring the way the soft wool clung in all the appropriate places. I brushed my hair back, fastening it into a ponytail with a dull gold ribbon, then left the room, quite satisfied with my appearance.

My shoes were still on the table in the main hall downstairs, the broken heel beside them. Craig must have found it earlier this morning and put it there, I thought, rather touched. I was glad now that I had broken the heel. Having it repaired would give me a perfect excuse to drive into Gordonville today. Mary came into the hall with feathery dustmop in hand, informing me that Craig and my aunt were in the basement, had been all morning long.

“Looking for them—those papers,” she said irritably, “raising great clouds of dust, stirring everything up. This whole house is already
buried
in dust, and they stir up more! Some people have no consideration whatsoever for a girl's feelings.”

She left, pouting prettily, and I went down the hall to the door under the staircase that led down to the basement. It stood open, and there were, indeed, flurries of dust in the air, eddying up the stairs and into the hall. Mary's complaints had been justly expressed, I thought, moving down the steep, narrow stone steps.

The basement was a great labyrinth of connecting rooms, some holding racks of wine and kegs of whisky, others lined with shelves filled with my aunt's jellies and preserves and boxes of herbs. Still others were littered with trunks and boxes and assorted junk, all layered with dust, spread with silky cobwebs. There was no natural light here, but oil lamps had been set at various intervals, their wavering yellow light revealing the low ceiling and brown walls stained with moisture. It was quite chilly, the air cold like cold water, and I was glad I had chosen the sweater. Hearing activity in one of the distant rooms, I moved down a narrow hallway toward the sound.