Читать книгу The Curse of Bloodstone - V. J. Banis - Страница 6

CHAPTER THREE

The storm was raging full force. Vanessa and Tutrice fought hard to control the horses as they sped through the open gates and up the winding drive to Bloodstone.

Vanessa whipped the team forward, toward the carriage house. She struggled to hold them steady while Tutrice climbed from the covered carriage and pushed herself against the howling gale. Between the two of them they sheltered the horses and carriage, not bothering to unbridle the team.

“Father will see to them.” Vanessa had to yell to make herself heard. “Come, let’s get inside before we are swept away.”

“The storm is fighting against you, my child. It does not want you here,” the old Cajun called.

“Be still. I’ve had enough of your grumbling. Come along.”

Their cloaks and skirts billowed out behind them as they made their way slowly up the walkway, under the portico, onto the wide, sagging front veranda. The pillars supporting the second-story balcony were uneven and weak-looking. Their paint had peeled away long ago, leaving them naked and vulnerable to the terrible winds. They, like the house itself, looked tired and weary.

Vanessa stood for a moment staring at the extent of deterioration. It was as if she were seeing her beloved Bloodstone for the first time. It was not the lovely, stately old mansion she’d left five years ago. It was old and creaky and falling into ruin. It seemed impossible that such a change could take place within the short span of five years.

She refused to dwell on such morbid thoughts. If the house were in need of repair, she would see that it was repaired. She gathered her hood tighter around her head and her cloak about her shoulders and went toward the front door. The wind was blowing so hard it made it difficult for her to see. She groped for the door handle but her hand touched nothing but rough wood. She backed away slightly and saw that the door was boarded over.

“You must not go inside that house,” Tutrice warned.

“Be quiet, I say. It’s boarded over. Why?”

“They are no longer here, child. You must have known as much.”

“Of course they’re here. Where else would they be?” She reached out to grab hold of a corner of one of the boards.

“You must not uncrate your own coffin.”

“I said, be still,” Vanessa hissed, raising her hand as though to strike the old woman. Tutrice did not cower; Vanessa would never strike her, she knew.

“Help me,” Vanessa said as again she tried to pull away the boards nailed across the door.

“I will not be a party to this,” Tutrice said. “I cannot help you. I will not be responsible.”

Vanessa said something angry, but Tutrice did not hear; it was lost in the storm. Frantically Vanessa began tugging at the edges of the boards. One by one they finally came away and were caught up by the wind and carried away.

Finally, the last board came free and Vanessa tried the latch, but it did not move. The door was locked.

She snatched her traveling bag from Tutrice and rummaged inside it, searching. Her fingers touched upon the hard, cold metal of her latch key. She pulled it out.

“No,” Tutrice said as Vanessa inserted the key into the lock. “You will never leave once you step inside. You will be a prisoner, like before.”

Vanessa gave the key an angry twist. She pushed down on the handle and the door swung easily upon its hinges.

Bloodstone engulfed her the moment she took a step over its threshold. The interior of the house was as quiet as a tomb. Even the raging storm seemed to refuse to cross the sill and intrude upon the deadly calm that hung like a pall over the inside of the old mansion.

“Bloodstone,” Vanessa said in reverence, staring at the graceful staircase that curved in a perfect crescent. The storm that raged outside did not stir a single prism of the massive chandelier. Unlike the neglected exterior, the house inside looked as clean and lovely as ever. The marble floors were polished. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a stain of neglect anywhere to be seen. The reception hall was as new and bright as it must have been when it was first constructed.

Tutrice remained on the threshold, her cloak and skirt streaming out into the night.

Vanessa took another step deeper into the house. “Father!” she called, looking up toward the top of the staircase. “Father, it’s me, Vanessa. I’ve come home.”

She called several more times, but each time was met with the same ominous, almost unearthly silence. With a shrug of annoyance she set down her traveling case and whirled to face the open door. “Get yourself in here,” she yelled at Tutrice.

Reluctantly Tutrice took a step toward her, then another. With a deep sigh of resignation she stepped over the threshold. The moment the wind handed her over to Bloodstone, her cloak and skirts fell limp. She sagged and let the tears run unchecked down her wrinkled old face. Slowly, reluctantly she pushed the door shut.

A clock ticked somewhere in the dark recesses of the hall. To Vanessa it was ticking backward in time—back to the year when she was eighteen and standing as she was now, looking fondly at the home she loved so dearly. Then she had looked at it through tears of farewell. She had run away from Bloodstone, away from her weak, distant mother, from her indifferent, uncaring father. She had listened to Tutrice and to her heart and she had allowed her emotions to rule her senses. And so, she had fled.

Without turning, Vanessa asked Tutrice, “Why did I leave all this? For what?”

“You know why,” Tutrice answered, almost in a monotone.

“It was you who urged me to run after him.”

“No, I merely told you to go away, to go away from this accursed house.”

“Stop saying that.” Vanessa put her hands over her ears. “Bloodstone is not accursed. It is our home.”

“It is your grave.” Tutrice shouldered past Vanessa and disappeared through a door tucked under the curving staircase.

“Old fool,” Vanessa yelled as the door shut.

Suddenly a man appeared at the head of the stairs. “Vanessa?” he said. “Vanessa, is that you?”

“Father! Oh, Father!” She ran up the steps and threw herself into his arms.

It was not a comfortable embrace, however—they had not been accustomed to embracing. After a moment, she stepped back and looked him up and down.

“You’re looking so well,” she said, but her father looked far from well. “And Mother? Is she well?”

Her father motioned to a door that stood partly open. “She is in the sitting room.” He gave a little chuckle. “You know your mother. She never changes.”

But her mother too had changed. Hester Mallory sat before a fireless hearth calmly working on a bit of embroidery. She glanced at Vanessa. She did not smile.

“Hello, Mother. I’ve come home.”

“Yes.” Hester gazed at her daughter for a moment, then returned her attention to the needlework in her lap.

Vanessa looked from her mother to her father. “You don’t seem surprised at seeing me,” she said, forcing the pitch of her voice higher in order to give it a more cheerful lilt. “It has been five years, you know.”

“We know,” her father answered. “Of course, we are overjoyed at seeing you.” He paused. “They told us you drowned.” There was no emotion in his voice. The words came out flat and stiff.

“Me? Drowned?” She suddenly laughed gaily.

Jeremiah nodded gravely. “Five years ago. You and Captain....” He fumbled for a name, but none came to him.

“I’d prefer his name remain unspoken,” Vanessa said quickly.

Her mother looked up from her sewing. Their eyes met and locked briefly. After a moment, Hester Mallory looked back down to her embroidery.

“It was a mistake,” Vanessa said. “I’ve come home to start anew. Tutrice and I....”

“Is Tutrice here, with you?” her father asked. He looked strange. His eyes widened, his lips trembled slightly.

“Yes, downstairs. Oh, I left the horses hitched to the landau.”

“Everything will be taken care of.”

For an uncomfortable moment they just stood looking at each other. “Why is the house boarded up?” Vanessa asked.

“Boarded up?”

“Yes. I had to rip away the boards in order to unlock the front door.”

Jeremiah looked toward his wife. “Hester? Were you aware of this?”

“Yes,” she said, drawing thread over a design on the linen.

“Please tell me why.”

“You forget, Jeremiah. The front door is never used anymore.”

Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, of course,” he stammered. “I forgot.”

“Never used?” Vanessa said, again frowning in confusion. “May I ask why?”

“Bloodstone is very old,” her father told her. “It will fall around our heads one day.”

“Surely it can be repaired.” Vanessa looked around at the lovely, sparkling sitting room. Everything in the room was polished and new looking. The heavy velvet portieres cascaded gracefully from the tops of the French windows. The rugs and furniture were in perfect condition. The upholstery seemed unworn and fresh, the colors vivid and bright.

Her father made a helpless gesture. “Let it fall,” he said.

Vanessa whirled on him. “What are you saying? Let Bloodstone fall? You can’t let Bloodstone fall into ruin. I won’t permit it.”

Slowly his eyes moved to meet hers. “It is of no consequence now,” he said.

“Of no consequence? You must be mad!” She suddenly realized that something was terribly wrong; something had happened during her five-year absence, something dire. “What happened?”

“Happened?” her father asked innocently. “Nothing. Everything.”

“Please explain.”

Jeremiah looked away and glanced at Hester. She looked up at him briefly, then back at her sewing.

“There is nothing to explain,” Jeremiah told Vanessa.

“There is everything to explain. Bloodstone is gradually falling to pieces on the outside. Why have you allowed it to deteriorate outwardly while inside it is more immaculate than ever?”

“One does not live on the outside of a house,” Hester put in without looking up.

Vanessa stared at her. In all her years she’d never known her mother to enter any discussion. She was stunned for a moment. “You’re making no sense. I demand to know what has happened since I left.”

Tutrice, standing in the doorway, said, “You will learn everything soon enough.” She nodded to Jeremiah, then to Hester. “We will stay in the west wing as usual,” she told them.

“Of course,” Jeremiah answered.

“Come along, child,” Tutrice said to Vanessa. “You’re tired.”

Vanessa’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “I am not tired...nor am I hungry...nor am I cold,” she snapped. “Leave me be, Tutrice. Why must you hover over me?”

“Suit yourself, girl.” The old crone nodded again and started to leave.

“Wait, Tutrice,” Jeremiah called.

The old woman turned back and stood waiting.

Jeremiah hesitated. After the pause, he straightened himself and squared his shoulders. “I know Vanessa will not tell us, so I will ask you. What of this man, this sea captain. Is he dead?”

Tutrice shook her head slowly.

“I protest. I forbid you to speak of him,” Vanessa fumed.

“No,” Tutrice said. “He is not dead. He abandoned her.”

Hester’s needle pricked her finger. She gave a tight little gasp and stuck the pricked finger into her mouth.

“So,” Jeremiah sighed, “it is not finished.”

“No, it is not finished,” Tutrice said solemnly.