Come to Castlemoor (17 page)

“Why did you bring me here, Nicola? Certainly not to see the dolls?”

She shook her head, frowning. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “I have to tell someone. I must—” She gnawed her lower lip and pulled herself up straight, examining the hem of her white dress.

“I saw Jamie,” she said bluntly.

“You did?”

She nodded, avoiding my eyes.

“Where?”

“Here,” she whispered.

Her dark eyes were enormous, shadowy, and her face seemed even paler than before. She looked frightened, and when she spoke again her voice wavered. There was an urgency about her words, as though she were pleading with me to believe them.

“Two nights ago,” she began. “I—I couldn't sleep. I heard noises. Shuffling footsteps, low voices. I told myself I was imagining them, but they wouldn't go away. It was late—two, three in the morning. I put the pillow over my head, told myself to sleep, to sleep, told myself I didn't hear anything. I—it was useless. I sat up. I lit my lamp. Then I heard the cry—a scream, really, something terrible, terrible. I ran out of my room and down the hall, and when I reached the stairs that led down to the dungeons, I saw him—just for a moment.”

“You—you saw Jamie there?”

“Yes. I saw his golden hair, his pale face, his dark eyes. Just for a second. Coming up from below. Then he vanished, as though someone had jerked him back down. I heard shuffling in the darkness, heard a sound like a blow. Then—then I just stood there. I don't know how long. Buck came.
He came from down there
. He told me I'd had another nightmare. He told me not to say anything to anyone. It'd just upset them, he said, and I'd be punished. I—I had to tell someone. I decided to tell you.”

“You're certain it was Jamie?”

“The pale face, the golden hair—it, it must have been Jamie.”

“Think.”

“Yes—yes, I'm sure.”

“It wasn't just a nightmare, as Buck said?”

“It wasn't a nightmare,” she replied, her voice level.

“But—Nicola—”

“You don't believe me,” she said.

“It isn't that—”

“Of course you don't. Why should you?”

“Be fair, Nicola. I—”

“I have a vivid imagination. I read too much. I'm mad.”

She composed herself. She looked me straight in the eyes. For a moment her eyes seemed to beg, to implore; then they went flat. I could feel her withdrawing. She stood up. She brushed her skirts. She was very thin, very pale in the white dress, but there was something hard about her now, something impenetrable.

“Maybe it
was
a nightmare,” she said. “It's easier to be mad, much easier. Poor Ophelia—flowers and sadness and water. I should have known. I shouldn't have told you. Forgive me.”

“Nicola,” I protested. “I—I want to believe you. I want to be your friend.”

She shook her head, firm. “No, no, I don't need friends. Not now. They're going to send me away, you know. Dorothea has a friend on the Continent, France I believe it is, who has a house in the country and takes in paying guests. Burton has already persuaded Dorothea to write to the woman. I'll be leaving soon, no doubt. Perhaps it's best that way.”

“But—”

“Sunshine and green leaves and sky and young people laughing. I'll be a new person. I can be sane there—after a while.”

I felt helpless. There was so much I wanted to say. I couldn't find the words. The girl stood in front of the mirror, cold, lost to me, patting the sides of her hair. I felt as though I had betrayed her in some way, and I wanted to make amends, but the girl at the mirror was as hard as steel, her mouth set, her eyes cold. She ran a fingertip over her brow and turned her head this way and that, studying the reflection.

“Please,” I said, “give me a chance.”

“Forget it,” she replied. “I don't need anyone.”

“Won't you let me—”

“Shall we join the others?” she asked. “We mustn't linger too long. They'll think I've stabbed you or locked you in a closet or something. I'm supposed to be capable of things like that, from all I've heard.”

She opened the door and held it for me. I stepped out of the room. She smiled a smile of bitter wisdom, closed the door, and took my hand as though nothing had passed between us. We walked down the hall, and as we passed the staircase leading up from the dungeons, I saw Buck Crabbe coming up. When he saw us, he stopped, his fists clenched. His eyes shot me a look of pure venom, and he moved up a few more steps, menacing. Nicola saw him, laughed softly, and waved to him. We hurried on down the hall, hand in hand. I felt Buck Crabbe's eyes watching every move we made.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I had lost all appetite, and although the meal was lavish, I could only make a pretense of eating the succulent food Dorothea had had prepared for this occasion. I merely pushed the silver fork across the exquisite china plate. I sipped the wine in the crystal goblet and found it light, heady, and I drank more. The servant came to refill my glass. I smiled, nodded, and lifted the glass to my lips. Burton Rodd was watching me, amused. A cynical smile flickered on his mouth, and his dark eyes sparkled maliciously. I drank half the wine, glaring at him defiantly. He nodded slightly, as though to acknowledge my accomplishment. I set the glass down, a little too abruptly. When it clattered on the table, the others looked at me. I pretended not to notice.

“Ah, Egypt!” exclaimed Dorothea, who had been recounting her experiences as a young bride. With sunshade overhead and husband in tow, she had been an intrepid explorer, traveling from country to country with incredible zest. “The hot sun, the burning sands, the Nile! Crocodiles, my dear, swarming around the boat like vile green logs! My husband was petrified and kept asking the boatman if there was any
danger! I
stood at that helm and tossed chunks of bread to the creatures, thrilled, simply thrilled when they snapped open their jaws to gulp the food.”

I only half listened. My head seemed to be spinning. I took another sip of the wine, hoping it would help steady the spinning sensation. I was suddenly intrigued with the candles in their heavy silver holders. The pear-shaped flames seemed to dip and dance, flinging golden light all over the huge, baronial table. We all sat at one end of the table, but even so we were far apart. Dorothea sat at the head, Edward on her left, her son at her right. I sat beside Edward, several feet away from him, in fact, and Nicola sat across from me, her eyes lowered, her face alarmingly pale in the shifting light.

“The pyramids! You've never seen anything like them. They were excavating, and we actually went inside one of the grand ruins. Long passages all covered with hieroglyphics. I had the weirdest feeling! And when we saw the mummy, all wrapped in dusty linen.”

I had failed with Nicola. I had wanted so badly to help her to assure her of my friendship, yet it had been impossible to communicate with her. She had not spoken to me since we left her room. Once we joined the others, she had turned back into the demure, self-effacing creature I had seen when I first came. She showed Dorothea the bracelet, smiled meekly, withdrew into her shell. What demons haunted the girl? What living nightmare caused her to have such delusions? Her sickness must be deeply ingrained, as Edward had indicated. I felt a great compassion for the girl. I wished there had been some way I could have communicated it to her. Now, in her eyes, I was an enemy, incredulous, unbelieving.

“And Thebes! The stone cliffs at Deir el-Bahri, the temple of Queen Hatshepsut—more filet of sole, Miss Hunt? It's delicious, isn't it? I'll have the servant bring you another serving.”

“No,” I protested. “A—a little more wine, perhaps.”

“But of course!”

She rang the tiny silver bell beside her plate. The servant came. She gave him instructions, and he refilled my glass with the sparkling, light-red wine. Edward indicated that he would have more, too. Burton Rodd smiled to himself. Across the great table, his face was like a mask, shadowy, all planes and angles, only the mocking eyes alive. I lifted the glass, and I spilled a few drops on the tablecloth. I dabbed at the stains with my napkin.

I was unable to concentrate on Dorothea's words. She had moved on to Arabia now, talking of palm trees and dates and colored tents and camels. I looked up at the shadowy ceiling, where garlands of plaster flowers entwined with tarnished gold leaf against a dark-green background. Plaster cherubs held the immense chandelier which hung suspended over the table, thousands of multifaceted crystals glittering in the candlelight. I wondered what would happen if the cherubs dropped the chandelier. I envisioned a tremendous crash, a great explosion of sound, as crystal pendants scattered over the room. I almost laughed. I knew the wine was going to my head, but it was the only thing that made all this endurable.

I wondered what I was doing here, sitting in this great chair with its high, carved back. These were all strangers, even Edward, whom I didn't really know. This wasn't real. No, it was all a dream, going on and on, and I was asleep, watching it all through a haze. The huge, cold room, the shadowy ceiling with the ponderous chandelier, the sputtering candles, the people sitting so far apart, each lost in shadows—all imagined, not real at all. In a few minutes I would awaken, shake myself, see sunlight, and hear Bella making racket in the kitchen. I reached for the wineglass. It was empty. Why? When had I drunk the last of it? I couldn't remember.

“Would you believe it? He wanted to
buy
me! He actually made an offer. My husband was horrified, but I must say I was rather flattered, actually. He was a dashing fellow, the sheikh—tan face, great brown eyes, a wicked black moustache, the most dazzling white teeth! All wrapped in silk robes and turban, determined to have me for his harem. He looked mean when the guide explained I wasn't for sale. I was afraid he would pull out his dagger and slit the poor fellow's throat.”

“More wine, Miss Hunt?” Burton Rodd asked, speaking across the table and ignoring his mother's voice.

“No, thank you,” I replied.

“You're sure?” His voice was sarcastic.

“Quite sure.”

“It was dangerous, I know that, but I had to see the harem. He could have kept me there, locked the doors and never let me out, but I had to see how those women lived. Wretched sight! Fat, bloated creatures, most of them, lounging about on silk cushions and eating candied fruits, like a herd of cows! Jewels everywhere—rubies, emeralds, pearls galore. Gold bars over the windows, fantastic carpets on the floors. Sheikh Ahmed was a perfect gentleman, took me through there where no white woman had ever been before, and never once did he—”

Nicola rose, asked to be excused. When Dorothea protested, the girl said she had a headache and would like to go to her room. Dorothea looked concerned. Nicola said she was just tired, would be all right after she had rested for a little while.

“I wanted you to play for us,” Dorothea said. “I know Miss Hunt would have enjoyed hearing you at the piano.”

“I think we're all finished, Mother,” Burton Rodd said, interrupting her. “Shall we have coffee in the other room?”

“Why, of course,” Dorothea Rodd replied. “I've been rambling on and on—no consideration at all. I so seldom have an opportunity to talk about my travels.…”

Nicola left the table and moved out of the room like a wraith. Edward rose and helped Dorothea up. Burton Rodd came around the table and stood beside me. I wondered if I had the strength to get up from the table. My body felt limp, while my head seemed to be spinning dizzily. Pushing back the enormous carved chair and getting to my feet seemed like an insurmountable task. Burton Rodd laid his hand on my arm. I looked up at him and saw the irritated expression on his face. Dorothea and Edward were leaving the room.

“I don't need any help,” I snapped.

“I beg to differ with you,” he said smoothly. “You're drunk. Another glass of that wine, and you'd have passed out. It's a wonder you're not unconscious now.”

“How dare you imply—”

“I'm implying nothing,” he retorted, the irritation showing now in his voice. “Women are like children. They shouldn't be allowed to touch anything stronger than milk. Here—”

He pulled the heavy chair away from the table, helping me to my feet. I staggered a little. He held my arm tightly, supporting me, and wrapped his other arm around my shoulders.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asked tersely. “I'd hate for you to fall on your face. It would be embarrassing to Mother. Here, one foot at a time. Easy, now.”

“I am
not
drunk,” I whispered angrily. “You don't need to—”

“Shut up!” he said. “I hope to hell the others didn't notice! Maybe the coffee will help. When we get to the other room, sit still and drink it black, and, for God's sake, don't say anything. Perhaps they won't see anything out of the ordinary. I'll cover for you.”

“This is
infur
iating!”

“Come along, now. They'll wonder what's happened to us.”

He led me out of the room and down a long narrow hall. There were tapestries on the walls, green and blue and brown, all faded. The details stood out clearly, and I thought it extremely unjust of him to say I was drunk when everything was so sharp, so very clear. I was even aware of my feet moving, and I thought it splendid that one should be able to place one foot in front of the other and propel oneself in such a remarkable way. Why should he think me drunk, when I was so acutely aware of everything now? His arm was still about my shoulders, holding me tightly, and by tilting my head back and turning it sideways I could see his jaw, thrust out angrily, and his mouth, turned down fiercely at one corner. Such a grumpy man. Such a spoilsport! I wanted to run down the hall as fast as I could and see if I could slide on the highly waxed surface.