Stranger by the Lake (7 page)

“Why is she still here?”

“Poor thing hasn't anyplace else to go, actually, and Paul thinks she should be on hand to see that I get the proper rest and take my pills. Nonsense, of course, but I appreciate his concern. Paul is an old and dear friend. I let Mildred stay just to humor him, although I spend most of my time trying to elude the creature!”

“But if you're not still sick——”

“Do I
look
sick?” she snapped.

“Of course not, but——”

“There's absolutely
nothing
to worry about,” she said impatiently. “I have never felt better in my life. The pills are merely vitamin capsules, and I wouldn't touch 'em for the world! I have my own herb garden in back, you know, and it's kept me fit as a fiddle for thirty years. I wouldn't have caught the flu in the first place if I hadn't gone out in the rain to take Althea some broth. That was pure folly.”

She gave my arm a tight squeeze and led me toward the kitchen area. I could smell bread baking, and there was the tangy aroma of apples from the pantry. Aunt Agatha stopped to brush a speck of lint from her skirt, then turned to give me a close scrutiny, an expression of deep concentration on her long, plain face.

“You know, dear,” she said briskly, “you could use some of my herbs yourself. I don't know that it's
healthy
living in that crowded city with all those fumes and that nasty wet weather. I suppose you still have those dreadful habits, too. Sleeping till noon—shocking! I'll make you some of my special tea. It'll build up that tired blood.”

“But I don't
have
tired blood,” I protested.

“Works wonders for constipation, too,” she continued, ignoring my comment. “Come along, Susan!” She nodded her head firmly and linked her arm in mine again, leading me on toward the kitchen. I felt absolutely helpless against her authoritative manner, and delighted, too. Aunt Agatha was like a force of nature, sweeping one along with her. I found it delightful to be swept along with such incredible gusto.

Although she refused to take her pills and led the poor nurse a merry chase, Aunt Agatha's one concession was to take a nap every afternoon after lunch. She wanted to make today an exception, but I insisted she go on upstairs. She did so with reluctance, first having a long consultation with Cook and then informing me we were to have a grand dinner that evening, candlelight and wine, quite formal. Dr. Matthews would be coming, and it would be super. After she had gone to her bedroom I decided to take a tour of the gardens. I hadn't seen Craig Stanton since he showed me to my room. I supposed he was working on his book or, perhaps, searching for the manuscripts. I didn't particularly want to see him again just yet, and touring the gardens would give me an opportunity to think about some of the remarkable things I had learned this morning.

The terrace was charming, the cracked white tiles washed with sun and dappled with soft purple shadows from the trees growing around it. Earl was curled up on a shabby chaise longue with green plastic cushions, and an old yellow straw hat and a pair of shears rested on a low white iron table beside the chaise longue. Pots of vivid blue delphiniums added a friendly touch. It was a peaceful spot, one Aunt Agatha had described in many of her letters. I knew she liked to sit out here in the morning sun, write her letters, and read the bloodthirsty thrillers she devoured so ardently.

Earl looked up with sleepy eyes when he heard my heels tapping on the tiles. He gave a formidable yawn, shook his sleek silver body, and leaped from his bed. I allowed him one kiss, then told him in no uncertain terms that our friendship was going to be strictly platonic. He tilted his head to one side, listening intently, and I could have sworn he understood every word. Nevertheless, he gave me another slurping smack on the cheek and capered about like an overgrown puppy, following me down the low white marble steps that led to the gardens. Outrageous animal, I thought, rather flattered to have inspired such immediate and abounding affection.

Although the lawns and gardens of Gordonwood were vast and wooded, the gardens near the house were neater, more formal in arrangement, a flagstone path winding among them and narrow white marble steps leading down from one level to another. There were shady arbors and tall green shrubs and latticework trellises covered with thick honeysuckle making fragrant tunnels, cool and green. I wandered aimlessly, admiring the full-blown yellow and salmon-orange roses in their neat beds. Hollyhocks and blazing red poppies grew against rough-hewn graystone walls, and birds scolded from the leafy seclusion of the oak boughs overhead. Earl ran on ahead with energetic leaps and bounds, looking around to see that I was following, quite clearly showing off for my benefit.

I paused at one of the lower levels, looking back up toward the house. Seen from this distance, it was still large and formidable, black-green ivy growing up one of the gray walls, crumbly orange chimneys and squat black smokestacks adorning the multileveled green slate roof. The leaded windows were dark, almost opaque it seemed from here, and the enormous oak trees growing so near the house made it seem even more ponderous. It looked much as it must have looked a hundred years ago, when Sir Robert Gordon stalked through the halls in one of his dark rages and Lady Arabella in cool muslin gown served tea and cakes to the ladies in her charity organizations. I could imagine the two of them dwelling within those somber walls with their son and the frail young daughter who had died from consumption, but it seemed unreasonable of Aunt Agatha to stay here when she could have a charming flat in London. She loved the place, though, and it was home to her, for all its size and inconveniences.

A squirrel chattered noisily on the shaded green lawn behind me, darting from tree to tree on nimble feet, and Earl took out after it, barking lustily and deserting me for livelier activity. I slowly wandered down a narrow path between two solid walls of tall green shrubbery that towered up a good ten feet. Sun gilded the thick rustling leaves, and insects buzzed loudly. It was pleasant here, I thought, turning a corner, still surrounded by shrubs. There was the pungent odor of soil and healthy growth, a vivid blue sky above filled with wind-torn clouds and, on either side, the thick green walls. Charming place. One could forget everything.… I turned another corner, only to find another aisle between the shrubs. I was curious now, wondering where all this was leading.

I turned corner after corner, only to find more aisles. The shrubs were not so neatly trimmed here, ragged limbs and leaves sticking out, the path between them more narrow. I stopped, staring about me in dismay, and then I realized what I had done. I remembered my aunt's voice from a long time ago, telling me not to wander in the maze, little girls got lost there and missed their dinners. I had completely forgotten that warning, had forgotten that the maze even existed, yet I had plunged straight into it like a prize idiot. I remembered looking down at it from my bedroom window when I was a child on that first visit: a great green square of shrubs that covered the whole lower level. It looked like a pretty geometric pattern seen from the bedroom window, but it didn't look so pretty now.

I told myself not to panic. I was ordinarily quite calm, unruffled by most feminine phobias. Mice didn't bother me, and I was tolerant of spiders and wasps and assorted flying insects that caused many of my girlfriends to go into screaming hysterics, but the one thing that caused me to lose complete control was closed, confined places. I'd walk up ten flights of steep stairs to avoid riding an elevator, and closed public phone booths were out of the question. You're not confined, I told myself, there's a bright blue sky above and all this fresh
air
, but nevertheless the dark leafy walls on either side seemed to loom up with a sinister force, pressing towards me, threatening to crush and destroy. It was absurd, absurd, I knew, yet the panic was there and it was a very real thing inside me.

I forced myself to turn around and walk back the way I had come, moving at a normal pace when I wanted to run. I knew that if I once let go, if I ran screaming down the aisles with pounding heart, I would be utterly demolished. Turning the corner, I strolled down the next aisle, then turned again, quelling the panic. Yes, I was going the right way. I remembered that shaggy tear in the shrub and that patch of jade-green leaves among the darker ones. In a matter of minutes I would be out of this dreadful place, back among the roses and the sweeping lawns. I wondered what diabolic mind conceived the maze in the first place. What
purpose
did it serve? It was a wretched thing, designed to confuse and bewilder. I walked slowly down the narrow pathway, branches brushing my shoulders, concentrating on the turns. I felt quite confident now, certain I was going the right way. Then I saw the patch of jade-green leaves again.

I wanted to cry, but I didn't dare. My face was flushed, my cheeks a bright pink, and hair had tumbled over my forehead. I brushed it away, trying to maintain a degree of calm. I had made a simple mistake, turning to the left when I should have turned to the right, and it had brought me back to the place I started from. Hysteria began to mount inside, threatening to spill over any minute now. I could visualize hours and hours spent trying to find my way out of this hellish trap.

Use your logic, I told myself. The house was due north from the maze, but which way was north? I had absolutely no sense of direction. I remembered those awful weeks at camp when I was a child. We had worn white middy blouses and blue skirts and I had been utterly miserable when Old Hatcher with her blonde braids and stocky body had herded us out into the woods, barking commands and blowing her whistle if any of us got out of line. She had pointed out all sorts of dreary things like bark and birds' nests, and there had been lectures on survival. You could always find your way out of the woods by looking at the lichen, I remembered, and any fool could get a sense of direction by seeing where the sun was in the sky. Great, but there was no lichen on the shrubs, and I could see nothing overhead but the blue sky. The sun was up there somewhere, most assuredly, but I couldn't see it from where I stood.

I could stand here and scream until someone found me, I reasoned, or I could hold on and hope to find my way out on my own. The first alternative was far too humiliating to contemplate, so I chose the second one, squaring my shoulders and marching with brisk determination down the narrow pathway between the towering green walls. Fifteen minutes later I was in a state of nervous shock. The exit might be right around the next turn, I told myself, but I had been telling myself that every time I took another corner. Freedom was so close and yet so tormentingly out of reach.

Then I heard footsteps and the sound of someone whistling. I felt an unreasonable panic, remembering the dark form in the east wing, remembering there had been prowlers at Gordonwood. I was trapped, helpless … errant nonsense, of course. It was broad daylight, and surely no one with sinister motives would whistle like that. I forced my leaping pulses to be still and drew myself up with shaky composure. Rescue was at hand. Should I call out? The thought of anyone finding me in this ridiculous predicament was embarrassing, yet the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon in the maze was even more alarming. I cleared my throat, preparing to call out as casually as possible.

“You there?” a voice called before I could make my presence known. It was Craig Stanton. It
would
be him, I thought miserably, brushing back my disheveled hair and smoothing my skirt.

“I say, are you there?”

“H—here,” I stammered.

“Louder. I'll have to locate you by the sound of your voice.”

“Here!” I shouted.

A few minutes later Craig Stanton strolled around the corner, a look of devilish amusement in his eyes. He cocked his head and grinned boyishly. He was still wearing the tight jeans and bulky white sweater, and I tried not to marvel at his stunning good looks: those sculptured cheekbones, that strong jaw, those magnetic blue eyes, and the dark brown hair that tumbled over his forehead in such rich locks. His virile male beauty disturbed me, and I was painfully conscious of my own state of dishevelment: green linen dress rumpled, hair spilling down untidily, cheeks flushed a bright pink. He chuckled, lips still curled in that maddening grin.

“This is delightful,” he said. “It isn't often one has an opportunity to rescue a maiden in distress.”

“I don't need rescuing, thank you. I-I was just taking a pleasant stroll——”

“And I just happened to be on the terrace when I saw you stepping into the maze! Thought at the time it was a damned foolhardy thing to do, but I assumed you knew how to find your way about. When half an hour passed and you still hadn't come out——”

He paused. “Well,” he said huskily, “here we are—alone.” He lowered heavy lids over lazy blue eyes, turning it on full blast. Some women would have melted. I found it slightly ludicrous.

“Do you try to seduce every woman you meet?” I asked, my voice pure acid.

“Not all of them,” he said lazily. “Once in a while I let one or two slip by.”

“Your conceit knows no bounds, Mr. Stanton.”

He looked at me beneath drooping lids, blue eyes lazy and seductive. “We both know there's going to be something between us,” he said. “Don't fight it.”

“My God! Where did you pick up
that
bit of dialogue?”

“From your last novel, as a matter of fact. Norman said it to Lauren as they were standing in the ruined temple. Agatha insisted I read the book when she found out you were coming. I must say, it was quite revealing. One can learn a great deal about the author from the book——”

“It was a work of pure fiction,” I said calmly.

“The hero was very interesting, the kind of man women dream about. I gather you've done your share of dreaming.”

“Nonsense. Heroes in romantic novels have to be dashing. I can assure you that if any man acted like that in real life a woman would laugh in his face.”