The Lady of Lyon House (12 page)

There was more traffic on the river now, several fishing boats going downstream. There was a sailboat with a faded blue sail and a large, flat barge loaded with fish. We heard the shouts and cries of vendors.

“I love rivers,” I said, watching the activity. “When I was a little girl I used to love to sit on the banks of the Thames and watch the barges go past. It was endlessly fascinating.”

“The Thames this isn't,” he replied, smiling at me.

“Look, there's the inn,” I said.

The terrace came right down to the edge of the river, paved in flat red tiles, with a railing at the bank. There was a huge oak tree in the middle, its large limbs spreading shade over the dozen or so tables that set outside. Several people were drinking beer, and a plump waiter in a soiled white apron was removing empty steins from a table. A woman with two small children sat sipping tea while the children nibbled cakes, and an ugly man with enormous shoulders and a broken nose sat sullenly with a companion who was hidden behind a newspaper. One of the children waved at me, and I waved back, smiling.

Edward Lyon looked in that direction. The lines of his mouth suddenly grew very harsh, and his dark eyes looked flat, hard. He steered the canoe quickly over to the bank, where the concrete wall would conceal it from the people at the inn. I thought his face was pale now, and I was about to ask him what was wrong when he spoke.

“I think we should go back now,” he said flatly.

“But—whatever for?” I was bewildered by his sudden change.

“Don't ask questions,” he said sharply;

He turned the canoe around and began to paddle in the direction that we had just come. I could see the effort now. He seemed to be straining with the paddle. The muscles bulged beneath his suit, and he paused to take off his jacket. I was frowning, but he took no notice of me. He was intent on getting away from the village.

We were silent. We passed under the bridge where the little boy was fishing. Two small companions had joined him now, and they waved at us. I did not wave back, and Edward Lyon had not even seen the children. I watched the village grow smaller and smaller as we left it behind. We had reached the wide part now, and soon we were around the bend and the village was out of sight. Only then did Edward Lyon relax.

He looked tired. His forehead was moist, and there were perspiration stains on his shirt. He brought the paddle in and let the canoe drift. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. He looked at me for a long time, still not speaking. The canoe drifted through a bed of water lilies, pink and white flowers resting on flat green pads. He reached into the water and plucked one of the flowers. He handed it to me with a nod of the head. “For you,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, a bit too prim.

“I suppose you wonder what that was all about?”

“I'm sure you had your reasons,” I replied.

“Yes, I had my reasons.”

I stroked the wet blossom, not looking at him.

“You're not going to ask any questions?”

“I think not.”

“Good. You're learning fast. Would you like to pull up here and have our picnic?”

“No, I—I think I'd rather go back,” I said, feeling like a sulky child.

“I'm not in much of a mood now for a picnic myself. We'll head for home.”

He paddled steadily, and soon the willow leaves were touching our arms again. Dragonflies darted around the canoe, and once a fish jumped up right in front of us. We arrived at the boathouse and he helped me up onto the pier. We were walking towards the gardens before he spoke again.

“You are not ever to go to the village alone,” he said. “Not under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

I looked up at his face. His eyes were very serious and his mouth was grim. I nodded meekly. I did not ask questions. I was learning.

CHAPTER NINE

I
COULD NOT
understand his strange conduct. At lunch he was casual, all charm and pleasantness, and he talked about our trip down the river as if nothing had happened to terminate it so abruptly. I tried to find some clue in his conversation. There was none. It was clear that he did not intend to mention the incident again. He began to talk about the forthcoming fair and tried to get Corinne to show some interest in going herself. She merely snorted and peeled her peach, calling him a fool. Edward Lyon teased her a little more and then asked to be excused. He spent the rest of the afternoon in his rooms.

Corinne was in a better mood today. After lunch she insisted on taking me to the gallery and showing me all the family portraits. We walked down a long hall paved in black and white marble, the walls covered alternately with faded red velvet draperies and immense paintings of Lyons. The hall was cool and drafty, and our footsteps sounded noisily on the marble floor. Corinne pointed to each portrait in its heavily ornate gold frame and made some comment about that particular ancestor. Her remarks were wicked and witty, and once or twice she revealed a particularly salty anecdote which brought a blush to my cheeks.

The men were all sober and very stern, usually with heavy beards. I noticed the dark eyes Edward Lyon had inherited, but not one of his ancestors seemed to have his jaunty attitude. The women were tepid, only one with Corinne's blazing red hair. At the end of the gallery there was a blank space, the wall a little yellowed where a portrait had once hung. I asked Corinne about it.

“Can't you guess?” she replied.

“Your portrait hung there?” I said hesitantly.

“Of course. I had it removed! I didn't want that beautiful face on display, haunting me, taunting me. I relegated it to the attic. I wanted to burn it but, after all, it was painted by a master!”

“I would like to see it,” I remarked.

“What! And make comparisons? Not on your life!”

“That's foolish,” I said, rather rudely.

“You can talk. You are young, and quite lovely.”

“Is youth and beauty everything?”

“You'd be surprised,” she snapped, peeved.

“I'd hate to think my life was over just because I lost my youth and whatever beauty I might have possessed,” I told her.

“You think my life is over?” Corinne Lyon cried.

“No,” I replied politely. “You seem to be the one who thinks that, Mrs. Lyon.”

She tapped her foot on the marble and looked at me with a crooked smile on her heavily painted lips. Her cheeks were chalky with powder, a bright red spot of rouge rubbed into each, her lids coated with blue-gray shadow. Her make up was that of a character actress who is to play a roguish countess or a tipsy old dame, I thought. Corinne wore a robe of shiny gray velvet, trimmed with dyed blue fur. She toyed with a gray fan snapping it open and shut.

“You're a cheeky child,” she said. She seemed to be amused.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. At last I've got someone who can give as well as take in a tussle. I'm tired now,” she said abruptly. “You may escort me to my room. I'll nap till dinner time.”

We walked slowly upstairs. Corinne ran one gloved finger along the railing of the staircase, and when she found the glove tip covered with dust, she railed at a servant who was coming downstairs with an armload of linens. The poor girl, gauche and raw boned, looked panic stricken. I was slightly embarrassed, but Corinne chuckled wickedly as the girl fled down the stairs.

“Now tell me about your trip,” she said as we walked along the hall to her room. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much. The river was lovely.”

“I suppose Edward was up to form?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Tosh! A girl your age should know. The man's a scoundrel. He is my own nephew, but I know him for what he is. Don't go letting him put ideas in your head.”

“He was a proper gentleman, very polite.”

“That must have been disappointing!”

“Why—” I stammered.

“When I was your age if a man took me on a canoe ride and acted like a proper gentleman I would have been furious!”

“Well, I'm sure Mr. Lyon had no intentions—”

“He's a man, isn't he?”

“I'm sure he thinks I'm a child.”

“Good! Perhaps Edward has a little sense, after all, but I wouldn't trust any Lyon as far as I could spit. My nephew has all their bad qualities—and then some.”

“Besides,” I continued, “I'm sure Mr. Lyon has someone else he is—is interested in.”

“That's a modest way of putting it,” she said.

“Does he?” I asked, ashamed of the question.

We stopped in front of the door to her room. She opened it and stood in the doorway, regarding me with a curious expression, her head held a little to one side. Her eyes danced with mischief, and I felt uncomfortable. I think she guessed a great deal from my demeanor, and the old lady seemed to be delighted when a blush stole up my cheeks.

“I wouldn't be surprised if he does,” she said waggishly. “The servants talk, and I'm not exactly deaf. No, I wouldn't be surprised if he does.”

With this enigmatic statement she whirled into her room and shut the door behind her. I stood in the hall for a while, wondering exactly what she meant. Had Corinne heard talk about the mysterious woman who came to Lyon House? I wondered. I shook my head, thoroughly irritated with myself. It could not conceivably matter to me if Edward Lyon had a mistress who stole in to see him under cover of darkness. It wasn't my concern at all and I tried to tell myself that I couldn't care less about the matter.

I felt very much alone. It was late afternoon, and the house was still. Corinne and Edward and Agatha Crandall were all in their rooms, and the servants were busy with their various tasks. I wandered through the rooms, unable to explain my strange restlessness. I touched cool surfaces of furniture, examined objects, strolled through room after room and tried to banish the feeling that possessed me.

It seemed as though everyone in the house was waiting for something. Even the house itself seemed to be waiting, and the stillness now was the curious stillness before a storm, a stillness heavy with foreboding. Perhaps that explained the strange moods, the outbursts of temper, the display of nerves. Agatha Crandall with her alcohol and her secretive manner, Corinne with her flashing temper and moments of sadness, Edward Lyon and his bewildering conduct this morning: all seemed indicative of something hanging over this place. I felt it, too; it was almost tangible. I hurried outside, hoping the sunshine and fresh air would rid me of this mood.

In back of the house there was a shaded porch and a small drive that tradesmen used when making deliveries. A path led through vegetable gardens down to the smoke house, and beyond that was a wooded area that led down to the gazebo. I walked away from the house, moving quickly as if in flight from the melancholy that had threatened to overcome me. I would not give in to that feeling. I would not be sad. I would not pine for London and Mattie and the music hall and the life I had loved so much. It would only make things worse.

There was a stillness outside, too. The sky was gray now, and the sun slowly sank, leaving a misty trail of violet shadows in its wake. No wind rustled the leaves of the trees. It was as though the whole world was holding its breath. I walked past the vegetable gardens, past the smoke house, was soon in the woods. I could hear the water running along the riverbank and smell the crushed milkweed. The stillness, the silence, unbroken by bird or breeze, was vaguely unnerving. I could hear my own footsteps crushing the dead leaves and acorns underfoot. I wanted to cry out, to shatter the silence.

I stopped and leaned against the trunk of a tree. To my surprise, I was breathing heavily, as though I had indeed been pursued. It was foolish to have worked myself into such a state, and for no reason, I told myself, and yet I had the curious sensation that there
was
a reason. It was not clear, but it was there. I closed my eyes, trying to relax. I felt the rough bark of the tree against my back. I felt the woods all around me, smelled the soil and the sap, and after a few moments I was ready to laugh at myself and run back to the house and get ready for dinner. Then I heard the woodpecker.

It was coming from somewhere near the gazebo, making quite a lot of noise. I decided to go see if I could spy it. I loved birds. Back in London I had a portfolio filled with colored pictures of various kinds. I had never seen a woodpecker before, and it would be exciting to see one now. I hurried towards the sound, trying to move quietly so as not to frighten the bird away. Through the branches of the trees ahead I could see the top of the gazebo. The noise was louder, and I suddenly realized that it was no bird at all.

Edward Lyon was standing beside the gazebo, a hammer in his hand. He was nailing a board back in place, and when he finished he flexed his shoulders and stood back. He gave the last nail a final bang and then put the hammer down, sighing. I wondered why he hadn't had a servant attend to the job. He turned around and saw me. He looked startled, then guilty, as though he had been caught in some mischief. He shifted position as I approached him, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was not friendly.

“Just—strolling. I thought you were a woodpecker.”

He arched a brow.

“I heard the hammering,” I explained. “I thought it was a woodpecker at work. I see I was mistaken.”

“I noticed this morning that one of the boards was loose,” he said. “I thought I'd better come down and fix it.”

I thought this quite strange. Edward did not strike me as the kind of man who would be bothered by a loose board on a deserted gazebo. He stood with his legs wide apart, his palms resting loosely on his hips, watching me with rather belligerent eyes. I had the absurd impression that he had actually been inside the gazebo, had come out and was boarding it back up. For some reason he reminded me of a dog who was guarding a bone, and I wanted to laugh.