The Lady of Lyon House (13 page)

“Can't depend on the servants to take care of these things,” he continued. His voice was pleasant now, and he seemed to relax. He rubbed his palms against his thighs and smiled at me. He stepped away from the gazebo and came towards me. I watched him with curious eyes.

“I—I thought you were still in your room,” I said. “I didn't hear you leave the house.”

“Oh, I left around four. Had to go to one of the tenant farms, look at the bull that's going to win the blue ribbon for me at the fair. Then I remembered the loose board—”

“I see.”

“Do you always keep track of people?” he asked quietly.

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“You don't? No—I suppose you wouldn't. I must remember that you are eighteen years old and quite unsophisticated.”

“Please do,” I said icily.

He grinned pleasantly, all the charm returning. I was determined to resist the charm. He seemed to be aware of the resistance, and the grin widened on his lips. He flung an arm casually about my shoulders and led me along the path, away from the gazebo.

“Don't take things so hard,” he said. “We're a strange lot, all of us around here. Myself included. It takes a little time to get used to us.”

“Really?”

“Indeed, yes. Come now, don't pout.”

“Why should I pout?”

“I'm afraid our picnic this morning wasn't exactly what it started out to be,” he said. “I'm sorry about that. You must have thought me an absolute ass—acting the way I did. I've been a little on edge today. You must forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” I replied.

“You must give me a chance to make amends,” he said.

“Please don't give it a second thought.” My voice was very cool.

He laughed softly to himself.

“Temper, temper,” he said. “Don't turn sarcastic on me. That would be more than I could bear. Come—let's go back to the house. Perhaps we will go on another picnic soon.”

“You needn't try to humor me,” I said stiffly. “I'm not a child, so please don't treat me like one.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Edward said, chuckling. “Believe me, that's the last thing in the world I'd think of doing.”

I sat before the mirror, nervously twisting a curl around my finger. My eyes were very dark blue now, and they seemed to be the eyes of a stranger. I wondered what was happening to me. What had become of the little girl with the puppets? I was afraid, but it was not a tangible fear, like the fear I had felt when I was followed in the fog. It went much deeper, and I felt it had become a permanent part of me. I was a different person, and I did not like the change.

I tried to compose myself. In a few moments I would have to go down to dinner. I would have to smile and be gracious and play my part well. I applied tiny spots of rouge to my high cheek bones and rubbed the color in until there was the merest hint of flush. The soft gray shadows surrounded my eyes, making them seem all the larger, more pensive. I began to brush my hair.

Molly came into the room and gave me a jolly curtsy. I was very glad to see her and managed a smile.

“What a lovely dress!” she exclaimed. “It's the color of rose petals. Suits you dandy, it does. Makes your skin glow.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

“I came to help you get dressed. See you've already done it. Can I help you with anything else, Miss Julia?”

“Not at the moment. I'm almost ready to go down.”

Molly began to gather up the clothes I had taken off earlier. “Did you have a nice time with Mr. Edward this morning?” she asked.

“It was very nice,” I replied.

“I noticed you didn't eat the picnic lunch. Cook was furious. Mr. Edward came into the kitchen early, and gave her instructions on just what to pack, and her in the middle of breakfast preparations. Didn't you feel like eatin'?”

“We decided to come back early,” I replied.

“Oh,” Molly said.

She smiled impudently and folded the clothes. She was determined to have a romance, and any remark I made she would interpret to suit her own fancy. I was irritated. I finished doing my hair and stood up. The rose colored skirts rustled as I walked across the room.

“Did you hear what happened at the village this morning?” she asked.

“No. I'm in a hurry, Molly, and—”

“Great fuss. A couple of ugly lookin' customers took rooms at the inn and started makin' their presence felt. They're from London and have come down on some kind of business, they say. One of them picked a fight with Anson Ross—he's the lorry driver and strong as an ox. The stranger knocked him downstairs. There was the biggest commotion, and Anson left with a bloody nose and all kinds of bruises. The innkeeper threatened to throw the men out, but they gave him some money and he shut up about it. They seem to have a lot of money. Bertie saw 'em, says they look like thugs, real thugs.”

“What kind of business are the men here for?” I inquired.

“Something to do with land. They're scoutin' around for land, want to buy some for a client in London, they say. Bertie says he's seen land agents before, and he don't believe for a minute these men are what they claim to be.”

I made no comment. I stood with my hand resting on the door frame, suddenly very interested in Molly's chatter.

“Funniest thing—” she said, her voice full of curiosity. “The men were askin' questions about Mr. Edward and the old lady, wanted to know where Lyon House was and how long the old lady had been here, things like that. Strange, isn't it?”

“Not necessarily,” I replied.

I turned my face away, afraid it might betray me. I did not want her to see the effect her words had on me. I tried to appear very casual, as if I found nothing at all disturbing in what she told me.

“If you want to know what I think, I think they're not land agents at all,” Molly continued. “I think they're lookin' for Mr. Edward. Maybe he owes some gamblin' debts in London and they've come to collect 'em. Mr. Edward was always gettin' into debt, they say, and the old lady was always scoldin' him about it and refusin' to give him any money.”

“Perhaps you're right,” I said quietly.

“Or maybe it involves that woman—you know, the one I told you all about. Maybe one of the men in the village is a jealous lover, come to challenge Mr. Edward to a duel or horsewhip him or something. It's ever so excitin'!”

“Now, Molly—” I said.

“Don't you think we should warn Mr. Edward?”

“I wouldn't say anything, Molly.”

“But—”

“It probably amounts to nothing. The men are probably what they say. Anyway, even if they're not, Mr. Lyon can handle any situation that might occur.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course.”

“They might come to Lyon House,” she said, obviously delighted with the idea.

“I doubt it,” I replied, my voice very calm and logical. “I must go down to dinner now. Don't say anything about this, Molly. It might disturb Mrs. Lyon. Let's just keep it to ourselves.”

“Oh, I won't breathe a word, Miss Julia. I promise.”

I left the room and walked down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs. The house was shadowy now, and I had the feeling that something was closing in on me. It was an absurd feeling, but it was so strong that I glanced over my shoulder at the dim recesses behind me. I was a young woman in a rose colored gown, going to have dinner with an eccentric old woman and her charming nephew in a lovely old home, and it was nonsense to have this feeling, but I had it just the same. It followed me as I started slowly down the staircase.

It was very late, but I could not sleep. The French windows were open, and a strong breeze billowed the draperies into the room. They made a flapping noise, the stiff material rustling. The moon was full, and clouds drifted across its face, causing my room to be alternately filled with mellow silver light and drifting shadows. I did not even try to sleep; I knew it would be impossible.

Agatha Crandall had joined us for dinner tonight. She had been cheerful and bright, consuming great quantities of wine, but there was an edge of malice to her every comment, and she watched Corinne and Edward with amusement that she did not try to conceal. It was almost as though she knew that they were in some kind of trouble and enjoyed watching them squirm. Her talk had gradually begun to slur as she drank more and more, and she finally lapsed into silence, a smile on her thin lips.

Edward tried to be pleasant and gallant, but he was upset about something and his efforts to charm had a hollow quality as though he were performing for my benefit. Corinne stared moodily at her plate, toying with her food. Occasionally she lashed out at Agatha, but that seemed to tire her. I wondered if they had all somehow heard about the men in the village and that was the reason for this conduct. It was more likely that Edward had seen them this morning. That would explain why he had turned the canoe around so abruptly and headed back to Lyon House.

I was trying to remember something now. There was something I had seen or heard that had some connection with all this, but I could not recall what it was. It was there in the back of my mind, taunting me, and I knew that it had a bearing on what had happened. I tormented myself, trying to cast back in my mind and bring it to surface. It was connected with London and the music hall, and I kept seeing Bert Clemmons' face and hearing his slurred voice, but the words were not clear.

I got out of bed and put on my robe. I did not turn on a lamp for I did not want anyone to know of my sleeplessness and possibly guess the reasons for it. I walked over to the French windows and stepped out on the balcony. The marble was cold to my bare feet, but I did not go back in for my slippers. I leaned on the railing, the breeze blowing my hair away from my temples. The air was fresh and clean. I breathed deeply, trying to clear my mind of everything. I could hear the wind in the trees and the noise of the crickets in the garden. I stood there for a long time.

I remembered.

Bert had been drinking at Finnigan's Bar. He had met two men who had bought drinks for him and asked him questions. They had asked about my sister Maureen and wanted to know if I ever saw her. They had asked if Maureen ever sent me any money. Bert had described the men, one with a broken nose and enormous shoulders, the other thin and tall with blond hair and gray eyes. I was sure that those were the two men in the village.

They had been at a table behind the inn this morning. I remembered the man with the large shoulders and crooked nose. The other man had been reading a newspaper, his face concealed. Edward had seen them, too, had noticed them when I waved to the child. That was when he had turned the canoe about so suddenly. How had he known them? What connection did he have with them? He had warned me never to go to the village alone, and I was sure that was the reason why.

I felt a chill, not caused by the cold marble or the breeze blowing across my cheeks. It was caused by something else, something dark and mysterious and threatening. The two men had been in London. They had asked about me, about my sister. Now they were in Devonshire. They had asked about Corinne and Edward Lyon. They had asked how to get here. They intended to do something, and somehow or other I was involved.

Clouds passed over the moon and there was darkness, and then there was a rift in the clouds and moonlight spilled over the ragged edges, flooding the gardens with misty silver. It picked out the winding white path, stroked the petals of the roses, gilded the tops of the shrubs. The boughs of the trees were very dark, black arms reaching up to touch the silver. The beauty of the night was no comfort to me.

I remembered Mattie's voice that night when I had listened at the door. I remembered her words: “Lyon House is the only answer,” and then, “She will be safe there for the time being.” I had been sent away because something had threatened me, and now it seemed that it had followed me here. I did not know what it was. I only knew that I was a pawn in some affair that involved Lyon House and the people who lived here and, perhaps, the sister I had not seen for eight years. There was another man involved too, the man who had followed me to the music hall under cover of fog and then, incongruously enough, came in to watch my act every night. Where did he fit in? What was it all about?

The moon was obscured by clouds again.

I could not afford hysterics. I had to be calm. I had to wait, just as the others were waiting. Lyon House was not a haven after all.

CHAPTER TEN

T
HREE DAYS PASSED
, and there was no sign that the men in the village had sinister intentions. They had gone out with surveyor's tools and looked at several tracts of land, Molly reported, and yesterday they had gone, paying the innkeeper and leaving the village. However they had not left Devonshire, Molly insisted—they were still in the vicinity. They had been seen going down the road, and one of the farmers reported seeing them crossing a field. Molly claimed that they had moved to a spot where they would attract less attention, and she waited with excitement for the inevitable drama she expected to occur any day now. I was less sure about it. Perhaps I had been wrong about them. Perhaps they were really land surveyors after all. It was easy enough to invent shadows, I thought, particularly when one was upset.

Edward Lyon was quite busy, coming and going. He was inspecting the tenant farms, he claimed, and he smiled half humorously as he told me about the cows and manure and barns and fields, picturing himself among them. It was hardly the proper background for a man of his tastes, but he shrugged his shoulders and mentioned the call to duty and came in all dirty and sweaty, dust on his boots, his hair disarrayed, a wry smile on his lips. He hoped to sell some livestock at the fair, and most of the tenant farmers would have stalls there to sell their produce. He was pleasant and charming, and if he had been sober and serious that morning as we came back in the canoe, there were no signs of it now.