Читать книгу Silent Is the House - Barbara J. Hancock - Страница 8

Chapter One

I pricked my finger on the stickpin. A fat, dark droplet of blood fell on the yellowed ivory vellum. It smudged one corner of the signature on the handwritten invitation. I could imagine an austere woman scratching those few wavering lines with an antique fountain pen. And now the n on her Victoria Allen was drowned in my blood.

Drowned.

The sharp pain in my finger was a sudden contrast to the numb I experienced everywhere else. My parents had died in a sailing accident off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard a month ago. I looked at the carnation and the bloody pin through its stem that had bitten me. Every year for twenty-one years, I’d received a pink carnation in October on my birthday. Even as a child, when I would have preferred a fashion doll, the flowers had fascinated me. I kept them all—gone dry to brittle petals in an antique jewelry box.

And now, this year, something different arrived at the same time, an invitation to return to my mother’s childhood home.

Allen House.

A month too late for her to go with me. We’d never been close, but I ached over the injustice. The estrangement had never been discussed. It was like the wind or the sea—ever present. Unconsciously, I lifted my injured finger to my lips, but I wasn’t soothed, because just then my old jewelry box began to play. I jumped, startled, as a tiny ballerina that had been frozen in place for years jerked to life, seemingly spurred awake by the tinny notes of Brahms’s “Lullaby.”

I suddenly remembered with perfect clarity the day my mother had broken it. The music box had been a gift from my grandmother, too, or so we assumed. Neither it nor the carnations had ever arrived with a card. That year, the box arrived with the carnation, but it hadn’t been new. The sides had already been worn from use. With the passionate obsession of a young seven-year-old girl, I’d played and played the tune. Winding and winding and winding the aged mechanism to see the miniature porcelain doll pirouette. I’d recently become a dancer myself, with weekly lessons and closets stuffed with sparkling tutus. I remembered imagining that my grandmother knew this…and cared.

After what must have been the millionth turn of the little brass key my mother had snapped. She’d already pleaded a headache. I had selfishly continued to play the box. But I remember my shock when my normally quiet parent had stepped into my room to wrench the little ballerina in the opposite direction until a loud crack ended her dance forever.

Or so I’d thought.

I don’t know why my heart lurched painfully in my chest. I don’t know why I looked guiltily around my empty room as if the ballerina might offend my mother even weeks after her death. Maybe I looked for clues as to how the broken, unwound mechanism had suddenly found a second life?

The day was gloomy and dark. The room was unlit save for a single dim lamp in the corner. I had been sleepless and plagued by nightmares for weeks. I blamed the pregnant silence of shadows in every corner for that aching lethargy.

It was then that I noticed the dark smear of my blood on the ballerina’s crumpled gown. More than her sudden resurrection, more than the gloom, the blood on the tiny doll’s dress seemed a horror out of proportion to its reality. Her little body locked on pointe for eternity jerked as it moved. I shivered as the damaged mechanism persistently ground out the tortured tune, one laboring plink after another, until I couldn’t bear the tormented dance any longer.

I put the fresh carnation in the music box with its twenty predecessors and quickly shut the lid…only to have my heart lurch again when the song continued for several more impossible notes.

The broken music box had always haunted me. It had been a constant reminder of the potential for angry reaction that hid beneath my mother’s placid exterior. There was a raw edge beneath her surface that I grew to fear and was in constant dread of bringing forth through some careless action of my own. I had grown up learning a whole set of unspoken rules about what to do and what not to do. Even as an adult, even when my parents were away, I was as thoughtful as I could be. But now the music played again as if driven to it by some maddening unstoppable force. There was no one for its tune to anger now. The house was silent save for my own pounding heart.

Finally, finally, the last metallic plinks ended and I was left alone with my throbbing finger and the bitter smell of dried carnations resurrecting the past.

* * *

The trip from our house in Bar Harbor, Maine, to Long Island wasn’t a long one, but I’d been tense the whole way. I was still a little breathless when the airport taxi drove me to Allen House. My trip had been uneventful but harried because I was unused to travel and especially to traveling alone. The long driveway, surprisingly pitted and overgrown by hanging trees, jarred my stiffly-held back. The cab driver cursed several branches that screeched along the dented yellow sides of his sedan. It felt like a rainforest expedition to a lost city, even more so when the drive opened up into a semicircle sweep that brought us to the sprawling house itself.

Allen House was old-money big. Turn of the century railroad and banking billions to be exact, and pretty much a testament to why something much smaller in a subdivision and built from simpler materials might be more practical for future generations.

The slate roof looked green and patchy. The stone walls looked like a hundred years of Gold Coast wind and rain had worn them down to thin mints. And the square footage made me wince at the thought of energy costs. The driver was more impressed.

“Fuck me,” he cursed in awe. “It’s like something out of The Great Gatsby.”

Yes. It was an Art Deco masterpiece. It must have been amazing, say, in 1920 when flappers might have tagged it “the cat’s meow.”

Even now I was impressed. My mother had left all this like a Vanderbilt running away with a John Smith, and I was back. In the middle of the driveway’s circle, in front of the house, was a fountain that easily could have graced a Parisian square. And though it was dry and cracked and no longer flowing with water, I was suddenly, fiercely glad that I’d packed my mother’s designer luggage, and my pitiful broken jewelry box of dried carnations was hidden out of sight. My mother and father had managed to do well for themselves. They had been involved in finance. The details of which, with my dancer’s heart, I’d never been interested to hear even if there had been the slightest chance that they might confide in me.

I wondered if their success had made up for the loss of love.

The cab driver swung the car around to the entrance and stopped with a flare of gravel. I was thrown back against the seat because he’d been quick to put on the brakes as he continued to ooh and aah over a house that seemed an archeological find.

I gathered myself quickly and popped open the door before the distracted driver could do it for me. He’d already run around to open the trunk and retrieve my bags, mumbling about bootleg champagne and royalty.

I was left to meet the person who would have been the queen in the driver’s imaginary scenario.

“Hello, Angelica. You’ll have to forgive me if I stare. The resemblance is…striking.”

The meaning of her words didn’t penetrate. Briefly, only briefly, I wondered which aunt or cousin had been born with wide gray eyes and unruly midnight hair, because my mother had been naturally blonde, my father’s hair an unremarkable brown.

But then I was given over completely to my first impressions of my grandmother. Victoria Allen would have been tall if she’d been standing. I could see the height not only in her legs as they rested against her wheelchair under a plush cashmere shawl, but also in her straight, proud torso not even slightly bowed by age or infirmity. On her chest, a geometric locket designed with interlocking squares and inlaid with pearls was pinned directly over her heart, but it was her only adornment. She wore no other jewelry. She didn’t need it. Her silvery hair was piled high on her head and her makeup was simple and impeccable. Her eyes were watery with age, but they were still very like my own. On her, the gray matched her hair and the result was fetching. She was beautiful, but she was also surprisingly stiff in her expression, as if her face would shatter if she smiled. In only a few seconds, I acknowledged that the chair signified nothing. My grandmother was a strong, unbending woman, with or without the ability to walk.

“So, you’ve come,” she continued.

It wasn’t a welcome. She sounded almost shocked, as if she’d expected her invitation to be ignored.

“Yes, I’m here,” I replied. Inane. Stating the obvious when I had no idea what else to say.

My curiosity was drawn from my grandmother to the house behind her and that’s when I saw the suited figure on the looming terrace above us. His arms were crossed; his expression too far away to gauge, but I sensed disapproval at the reunion scene below him. I was tired from my flight and worn-out from weeks of grief. Maybe that’s why his tall, silent stance made me inwardly cringe.

Had I expected to be met with warmth and carnations?

Maybe.

Maybe I had.

Maybe I’d come looking for something I’d never managed to find even when my parents had been alive. Familial warmth. I’d seen it demonstrated by friends and acquaintances, but I’d never managed to generate the same feeling in my own stiff and cool home.

The loss of my parents had been even harder on me because I’d had to give up on that dream of closeness.

“Come inside and wash up. Dinner will be at six,” Victoria said.

I couldn’t believe it when her wheelchair whirred away, her back as straight as her front.

The man above us watched a few moments more as my grandmother wheeled away without a backward glance and as I dug for my wallet so I could pay the driver.

I turned back to the man above me when the driver drove away, shielding my eyes from the sudden glare of a setting sun. My attention was received with not so much as a nod from a face darkened in shadow as the sunbeams streamed from behind him. I could see that the cut of his suit was fine and fit the snug modern style of a younger man. His hair blew in the breeze and I could tell that it was brown and longer than the power suit would have indicated it should be.

But that was all.

His expression was completely hidden by distance and darkness.

When he turned away, I was left outside Allen House with hand-me-down designer bags at my feet.

However, I was well used to fending for myself.

I gathered up my things and headed for the imposing front door. I faced two oversized slabs of carved cherry with black wrought iron fittings and inlaid beveled glass. But I hadn’t come all this way to be turned back by fine architecture. Besides, all the metal was pockmarked with spots of rust.

I prepared to dump my bags and wrestle with the door’s double knobs when one door opened with a moan of its hinges.

“You’re here, then. Let’s get you upstairs. I’m the housekeeper. You can call me Bethany.” A tiny middle-aged woman squeezed through the doorway and grabbed too many of my bags. The numbness that had claimed me since the authorities had brought word of my parents’ death was tingling around the edges like a limb gone to sleep but struggling to wake. We’d had a cleaning service come in once a week for a mad dash of housekeeping that was almost Olympic in its intensity when I was younger, but for years I’d taken care of the cleaning myself. I had no idea how to act with a servant who was carrying my luggage.

I shrugged out of my coat and looped it through the handle of my shoulder bag. I also tried not to gawk at the entryway ceiling that opened up to a cathedral rotunda extending all the way to the top of the house where a crystal chandelier hung in dull glory. Even though it could use a good cleaning, it was impressive, surrounded by a dome of stained glass. I quickly followed Bethany up a large staircase with an elaborately curved iron rail, dull marble exposed beneath the worn carpet treads.

I was tired, flustered and out of my comfort zone, so of course, the man from the terrace met us on the stairs. Bethany panted, “Shove over, Owen,” and continued on. He stepped aside, for her. But for me? Not so much. Though his hands were now in his pockets and he only looked down on me from one foot rather than fifty, I felt the same discomfort I’d felt in the driveway. Disapproved of. Summed up and found lacking. For someone more used to complete indifference as long as I kept quiet, it was…galvanizing. My pulse quickened. My spine stiffened.

“Owen?” I asked. Not because I was curious about his identity, but because I wanted him to get out of my way.

“Owen Ward. I’m the lawyer for the estate,” he said, and I found myself fascinated by the contrast between his hardened jaw, so lean and angular, and the apparent softness of his windswept hair. It was a darker brown than I’d thought at first when I’d been fooled by a halo of sun. This, then, was my grandmother’s heir. Her letter had been an invitation, but it had also clearly stated that I could expect nothing from her along those lines. I’d been mortified that she’d thought the statement was necessary.

I shuffled my grip on the shoulder bag and remaining suitcase I still juggled myself while his cool green eyes looked me over from head to booted toe. Hardened jaw or not, I was treated to mixed emotion in those eyes. Perhaps he’d been expecting me to arrive with my own lawyer or dueling pistols. Maybe I seemed too much like a fish out of water to be as threatening as he expected. Whatever the reason, he seemed more than a little bit interested in my appearance. The intensity of his perusal didn’t match the tension in his face. There was a glitter to his eyes, a spark of interest, that didn’t match the stiff way he held his body. Then again, those green eyes against a lightly tanned face and chestnut hair might have seemed more intense because of contrast and nothing else. He clenched his jaw even tighter as I looked at him, as if he needed to rein in whatever interest was trying to flare in his eyes.

“I’m Angelica Peters,” I said. I was fit from years of dancing, but the bags were awkward on the stairs and I was tired. My heavy shoulder bag slipped down my arm, pulling me sideways.

Until Owen Ward reached to lift my bag back up on my shoulder.

It was an automatic move. He didn’t consider it. He reacted to the bag’s fall and my sudden distress in trying to catch it. But as he did so, his hand brushed all the way up my bare arm and against the side of my neck, and I was stunned because the numbness—for a moment—fell away.

I breathed in and the scent of the old house, musty and sweet and shut off from the world, was secondary. It was Owen’s scent, a fresh and slightly spicy evergreen that woke my senses.

“Thank you,” I said, referring to the bag. His hand seemed to linger, but it probably didn’t, because he frowned. The frown drew my gaze to his lips and I couldn’t help noting that his lower lip was slightly fuller than the top. I blinked and tore my thoughts away from how ridiculously kissable that made his mouth.

“We’ll talk at dinner,” he suddenly ground out, and then he moved aside so I could pass.

I did so quickly, as eager to reclaim the comfort of my numbness as he apparently was to send me on my way. The unexpected thrill of my less-than-welcome arrival clashing against the sudden flare of attraction for a man who obviously didn’t want me at Allen House overwhelmed me after weeks of feeling completely, untouchably tepid.

I didn’t give myself permission to slow, then pause and turn back to watch Owen Ward walk away. It simply happened. Only he wasn’t walking away. He stood on the stairs watching me and so he caught me in my pause. What would have been a furtive glance at his retreating form turned into the momentary trap of our gazes meeting to hold and to hold some more.

I’m sure it was only seconds, but the distance between us seemed to narrow and become unaccountably intimate. He didn’t speak and I couldn’t. His intensity paired with the fact that I had noticed that tiny detail about his lips when I shouldn’t have made me feel even more awkward than before. Finally, he blinked and his intensity was shuttered. He turned away and I no longer had to fight the urge to look at his mouth. I turned also and continued after Bethany, but a connection had been forged. As we moved away from each other, it seemed an invisible elastic cord stretched and stretched until it would soon pull us back together with a decisive snap.

The house was shadowy and quiet. I ignored the confusing pull of Owen and hurried up the remaining stairs to find Bethany waiting on the landing of the second floor. Behind her at the end of a long hall, I saw another woman, possibly a maid, walk from one room into another. She looked our way as she passed, but was moving so quickly I could only make out a flash of pale skin, a gleam of cool eyes and long black hair.

“Oh,” I said, startled by the maid’s unnaturally fast movement.

But Bethany was already leading me to a different room and, frankly, not moving much slower herself. I chalked it up to my perceptions being sluggish after my trip.

Surely the woman down the hall hadn’t moved oddly enough to make me stare and blink and stare again, willing her to reappear and prove herself as ordinary as I should expect her to be.