Cast a Pale Shadow (15 page)

She hadn't been in this part of town in years. Though it was just a few blocks south of St. Mark's, her high school on Page and Academy, for four years the limits of her world had extended to the bus stop on that corner and not a block beyond. The big, old houses and solid, brick apartment buildings row upon row down the streets branching off Kingshighway Boulevard seemed less intimidating than they once had to a little girl, but they were no less impressive. Kensington, Enright, and Delmar slipped past and the high rises, hotels, and hospitals loomed as they approached Forest Park.

Trissa caught her breath as Nicholas turned down Lindell, whose mansions faced the park, then, amazingly, right on Lake Avenue in the very midst of those mansions to Westmoreland Place. Westmoreland and its neighbor, Portland Place, were two of the remaining private place streets of the city, enclaves of the rich and the great brick bastions they erected. The private streets were established in the late eighteen hundreds to shield the high and mighty from the riffraff of common traffic.

Massive stone and iron gates guarded Westmoreland and Portland Place from entry at the main thoroughfares of Kingshighway and Union. Riding down those streets as a child, Trissa remembered gazing down the private places as long as the moving car allowed, wondering what it would be like to be a cherished child growing up there. She imagined the great black gates swinging open to admit her, her chauffeur joking with the guard, and both of them calling her Miss Trissa.

She had never known this Lake Avenue entrance existed, and as the sheltering trees that formed a canopy of budding branches overhead began to seal off the noise and bustle of the city, she thought Nicholas might be driving her to some hushed and secret world. She scooted forward in her seat to get a better view of the huge and stately houses that they passed, built in brick or stone to resemble Tudor manors, Georgian mansions, or Italian piazzas, styles that reflected the changing fancies of the rich over the years this place was in its prime. In her starry-eyed daze, Trissa barely noticed that some showed signs of neglect as their owners grew old and died, servants became too expensive to keep, and estates became entangled, wrangled over by children and children's children.

"Here? You live here, Nicholas?" she whispered as he pulled up the drive of a white stone fortress flanked by round towers with conical, slate roofs, lacking only fluttering banners to mimic a miniature Romanesque castle.

"Only when I'm in town," he yawned. "So hard to find a decent place for the polo ponies in the city."

For just a moment her eyes went round with wonder until she realized he must be teasing her. "Come on, where do you really live?"

"Here. Really. I rent a room upstairs. Some of the houses on this street take boarders now to make ends meet. It's against the deed restrictions but the owners are very discreet and clever in finding ways around that. Officially, I'm listed as the gardener, I think, though I couldn't tell a weed from an orchid." He leaped out of the car and hurried to the passenger side sweeping the door open with a flourish. "Welcome to Portland Place where the haughty hobnob with the
hoi polloi
. May I carry you across the threshold of our humble abode, Mrs. Brewer?"

Chapter Eight

Though he usually used the rear entrance and the back stairs to his room, Nicholas escorted Trissa to the front. He wanted her to get the grand sweep of the foyer as the original owner intended for his honored guests. He only regretted that it was not those few moments in the early morning when the sun poured through the stained glass panels of the front door to set the grand staircase shimmering with rainbows. But that would be a revelation for some other day.

Right now it gave him joy enough to feel her hand so confidently in his as she followed him down the flagstone walkway, through the overgrown side garden, and up the steps to the arched stone porch that sheltered the front entrance. The massive oak door, carved with thistles, had bold, brass hardware and a lion's head knocker tarnished to verdigris. Dwarfed by the door, Trissa tilted her head back to admire the stained glass transom and panels on either side of the door, which repeated the thistle pattern of the carving in shades of amethyst and emerald. Nicholas set her suitcase down and pushed his key into the lock. The rusty mechanism gave reluctantly and the door groaned open. He turned expectantly toward Trissa.

"You're not really going to carry me over?" she asked with surprise.

"If you will allow me that honor." Before she had a chance to decline, he quickly added, "For appearance' sake only, you understand," and he effortlessly gathered her in his arms. "Now close your eyes." When she did as he asked, he leaned against the door to shove it open and whisked her over the threshold. "Open them," he whispered.

"Oh! Oh my!" was all she could say as her eyes took in all of it. As he had hoped, Augusta had done her duty and lit the crystal chandelier and wall sconces at the first hint of dusk, and they filled the foyer with dancing light. It set afire the gold filigree of the wallpaper, turned the veins of the marble floor into gilded rivulets, and gave a warm glow to the ivory painted woodwork. Above them, the embossed copper ceiling twinkled back the light from a thousand diamond-cut edges. The foyer was Augusta's labor of love. She fussed over its care, shining and dusting and polishing incessantly.

"First impressions are so important," she'd told Nicholas on the day he came about renting the room. As he lowered Trissa to her feet, he wondered what his landlady's impression would be of her, battered and bruised as she was. He wished he had thought to call her and prepare her for this. It was too late now. The smell of fried chicken and the faint clatter of dinner in progress filtered out from the kitchen.

"You have to see the dining room next." He retrieved Trissa's suitcase from the porch and ushered her into the dining room. Here another crystal chandelier softly illuminated an amazing mural that filled one entire wall. Painted
trompe l'oel
to simulate an ancient tapestry with amazing tints and shading that gave the effect of stitches frayed and faded by age, the three panel piece told the story of Queen Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots. The first panel depicted Mary's trial, the second showed Elizabeth placing her seal on the death order, and the final was of Mary's execution the moment before the ax fell, a basket waiting to catch her severed head. "A bit gruesome for the dinner table, don't you think?"

"It's glorious. It looks so real. I feel I have to touch it to be sure it's paint and not fabric."

He let her wander the room, closely inspecting the mural and the antique treasures displayed in the mahogany breakfront. Faceted inlays enriched the surface of the Georgian styled dining table that was surrounded by twelve carved side chairs. Trissa's fingers explored the detail of the carving on a chair back, and she closed her eyes for a moment. "I don't understand, Nicholas. Why would anyone who could afford a house like this need to take in boarders?"

"For the same reason British nobles allow tours of the family castle. You'll know a little more when you meet my landlady, Augusta Blackburn. Are you ready?"

Angling to catch her reflection in the buffet glass, Trissa smoothed her hair then turned toward him. "I don't know. Am I? I'm so nervous."

"Me, too. Come on, we'll take the scenic route." He reached out for her hand and she took it without hesitance. Until that moment, it had not occurred to him that Augusta might not welcome this unexpected addition to her household. His mind had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Trissa over the past several weeks that it seemed strange to him that he was the only one here who would know her.

That he had spoken to her for the first time less than twenty-four hours before seemed beyond belief. Yet here they were, two virtual strangers trying to pass themselves off as husband and wife. Silently, they wended their way across the foyer and through the elegant formality of the front parlor with its ornate, carved mantelpiece and molding, it's graceful English antiques and the intricate patterns of its oriental rugs.

Through the music room and the back parlor, traversing the foyer again to the backstairs hall, Nicholas pondered the complexities of the coming introductions until he was sure his frown was formidable enough to frighten Trissa.

What would he do if Augusta rejected her outright? She kept her household as rigidly balanced as she must have the guest lists of her dinner parties in the heyday of this mansion. He knew they would all be sitting there at the dinner table now -- boy, girl, boy, girl. His vacant chair would mark the occasion of his absence. He imagined the turmoil that would be caused by the uprooting of Miss Hartenstein or Mrs. Lassiter to make room for Trissa. Their chairs were permanently embossed with the imprint of their posteriors for all the years they had spent in their same spots. His admittance into this elite group had been made possible only by the still-mourned passing of Chester Orthwein, member for some fifteen years.

Nicholas' steps slowed as he neared his destination. Trissa found it difficult to avoid treading on his heels. He thought to tell her that she was not to blame for his glowering, but when he halted suddenly and turned to face her, she flinched. "Should I have waited in the car?" she asked.

Some of his dread melted with the forlorn sound of her voice. No one, least of all Augusta, could be as heartless as to throw her out into the cold street. If worse came to worse, he would move out and give Trissa his place.

"Trissa, I'm sorry, I've been acting as if we were Christians about to face the lions. They're not so bad as that, I promise. They'll all love you, I'm sure. Let's go." He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, and they plunged through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

As usual, Hattie Kenyon monopolized the table conversation, complaining about her day in her sugary, sibilant voice. She animated her tale with flaring nostrils and outraged fervor. When May Lassiter gave a little scream and dropped her fork in her plate, it took a moment for the others at the table to realize it was not Hattie's story but Nicholas' appearance that had provoked it. And then every eye at the table turned toward the new arrivals. Every eye except Hattie's, she took another full moment to become aware that she was no longer the center of attention. Then she, too, turned to face them with a petulant flounce.

"Good evening, Augusta. Forgive me for being so late. And good evening to all of you," Nicholas greeted them with false bravado. "Hattie, sorry for interrupting your story. I hope you'll fill me in on the beginning of it when you have time," he said, knowing the value of smoothing Hattie's ruffled feathers. He put his arm solidly and protectively around Trissa's shoulders and flashed a winning smile at them all. "May I present my wife, Trissa Brewer."

Augusta was the first to recover. The air practically crackled as she rose and briskly approached them. Her bright, silver hair stood out in wiry filaments from the tight captivity of her attempt at a french roll. She always dressed for dinner as if her boarders were the members of St. Louis society who graced her table regularly before her husband died, except now she preferred the hominess of the kitchen table to the stiff formality of the dining room. The turquoise chiffon concoction she wore tonight was thirty years out of date but hugged her petite and slender figure as perfectly as the day it was made for her.

"Nicholas, we've been so worried about you! Maurice said he heard you come in and leave in a hurry this morning. And now this! You never cease to amaze me!" She greeted him with a peck on the cheek then extended a hand to Trissa. "And you, you tiny creature, how could you marry this man and break all our hearts? Why Nicholas, she's like a fairy's gift. And you both look like you had to fight tooth and nail to win the fair maid."

"We had an accident," Nicholas said. He released Trissa so that Augusta could inspect her and escort her to the table. "We spent the night at the hospital."

"Oh, my dear, what a honeymoon! But things will be better now, Augusta will see to that." She gave Nicholas a little push toward the counter. "Set yourselves a place. You look famished. Trissa, honey, let me introduce the rest of our guests."

Nicholas found the plates and utensils he needed and stacked both settings at his own place waiting for a cue from Augusta. He watched as she wisely began her introductions with the disgruntled Hattie. "This is Harriet Kenyon. Hattie teaches medieval English literature at St. Louis University."

"How do you do?" Trissa's voice was soft and she offered a brief smile as Hattie turned her stern, square face in her direction.

"Don't be afraid of Hattie, Trissa. She only looks like she would pinch your head off. It comes from reading
Beowulf
once too often."

Hattie's mouth popped open as if she meant to protest but then bent itself into a mechanical smile said only, "That's right, dear."

"And this is Jack Sanders who is a precinct worker for the Democratic Party in the city of St. Louis, which is to say no one knows just what he does but he sees to it that it gets done for all the right people. Jack was the one who brought Nicholas to us when we had need of one another."

Jack stood and kissed Trissa's hand. "Trust Nicholas to keep the best secrets."

Trissa's cheeks pinkened as she thanked him.

Rounding the head of the table toward the honored position at her right, Augusta introduced Roger Thane as her concierge and Nicholas smiled at the title. Roger's main duties were as Augusta's handyman and lover. His burly build and rugged good looks disguised the fragility of his health. Lung and heart damage from smoke inhalation had forced him to leave the fire department. Nicholas admired the unique blend of coddling and encouragement Augusta exercised on Roger, who still resented his compulsory retirement. She ruffled his hair affectionately as she said, "If ever you need anything and I'm not around, Roger can take care of you."

Roger stood and swallowed Trissa in a bear hug. "Just what we needed at this table, another pretty face!"