Sons of the Wolf (3 page)

As evening drew on, the sky was obscured by clouds. tow all was gray-earth, sky, houses, and fields-except or a lurid reddish glow in the west. Ada, who had been chattering brightly, fell silent. I sensed her mood; it was like my own. Some nervousness was understandable, in our situation, but I was aware of an odd despondency, almost fear. Nothing justified such a feeling. The coach was a splendid vehicle, upholstered in blue plush and supplied with cushions, wraps, and foot warmers; the horses were a pair of matched grays; the coachman wore a dignified but expensive livery. Certainly our new guardian was a man of means and taste. Yet it seemed to me that the crimson of the sunset clouds gradually took on the vague but menacing shape of a great animal and that we were racing toward its outstretched claws at breakneck speed.

I write this only to show how foolish such flights of fancy can be. No doubt Grandmother was right about my peasant Italian imagination! Darkness had fallen long before we reached the house-a darkness the likes of which my town-bred eyes had never seen. When I looked out the windows, it was as if I had been struck blind. Not a light, not a shape was to be seen, except for the glow of the carriage lamps. How the coachman kept the road is a mystery, but I suppose he knows the route by heart.

The first lights we saw proved to be those of the gatehouse, and very pleasant those yellow-red squares of windows did appear. We were expected; as soon as the carriage rolled up to the iron gates, a man darted out of the house and flung them wide. We did not pause but drove on through the gates onto a graveled drive which seemed to stretch on forever into the darkness. It was several minutes more before the lights of the manor came into view; it is some distance from the gates and completely screened from sight by a large plantation of firs.

The vehicle crossed a wide carriage sweep and drew up before a flight of steps. The coachman opened the door and extended his arm; Ada took it and stepped out. As I followed her, the door of the manor opened, emitting a flood of yellow light, and the figure of a man could be seen outlined against the glow. Ada clutched my arm; I could feel her shivering.

But the great encounter was yet to come. The figure in the doorway emerged, holding a lamp, and I realized it was that of a servant. We followed him up the stairs into a brightly lighted hall. Its warmth was a pleasant shock after the chill wind outside; I had only a dim impression of velvet hangings and great mirrors before the manservant was asking for our wraps.

His voice, as well as his manner, had told me that he was London-bred. A tall man of middle age, he had the stiff dignity of the well-trained servant. His impassive features did not alter when he looked at us, but I thought I noted a subtle change in his attitude as he received first my plain black cloak and then Grandmother's magnificent sable cloak which Ada was wearing. Neither of us had thought twice about her right to wear it; she loves furs, and she and Grandmother were almost of a height. Now I realized, with more amusement than chagrin, that the cloak was a symbol-and a very accurate one.

"My name is William, miss," said the servant, addressing Ada. "Mr. Wolfson is waiting for you in the library. Will you follow me, please?"

As we started off along the corridor, Ada's hand crept into mine, and I was glad to take it. I am not easily humbled, but as I followed that dignified specimen of manhood to a meeting with another male, who would henceforth dictate my comings and goings, I felt as small as Ada-a new sensation and not a particularly pleasant one. My heart was beating more quickly than usual as William opened a door and bowed us into the room.

I had wondered why our guardian had not met us at the door and hoped it was not a demonstration of his feelings for his new wards. But then I realized that he might be old or ill, and in my mind I placed the white-whiskered gentleman of my earlier fancy on a couch by the fire, with a shawl covering his limbs.

There was a great oak desk piled with papers and a man sitting behind it.

His hair was not white; it was a silver gilt that blazed like a helmet where the light struck it. A long moustache drooped over his lips, but he was beardless. Eyelashes and brows were of the same fair shade but thick; instead of looking hairless, as so many blond men do, his eyes seemed to be framed in gold. And the eyes themselves were so extraordinary that one hardly noticed their frames-a deep, brilliant blue, clear but oddly cold, like water that has frozen and yet retained its ability to mirror the sky. He might, at first glance, have claimed almost any age. The shoulders and arms were those of a man of vigorous youth, and there seemed to be no lines in his face.

Then he smiled, and the extraordinary ice-blue eyes lost their chill. They fascinated me so that I hardly noticed the shape of his lips, except to sense that there was something unusual about his mouth.

"Ada and Harriet," he said, stretching out his hands. We advanced shyly to take them, one in each of ours. "Forgive me for not rising," he went on, "but, as you see, it is my misfortune rather than my lack of courtesy which forbids me the pleasure."

Still holding our hands, he emerged-there is no other word for it-from behind the desk; it was a weird sight to see the unmoving head and torso glide sideways, without rising. But when he was away from the shelter of the desk, I understood. Part of my imaginary picture had been accurate. Mr. Wolfson was seated in a wheelchair, and-yes!-a lap robe covered him from the waist down.

Yet it was impossible to connect the frail invalid of my fancy with this broad-shouldered, vigorous man, even when, as I saw him closer, I realized that the gold of his hair was faded to gray and that his face was seamed with the fine lines of physical suffering.

"Sit down," he said, relinquishing our hands and waving us toward a velvet settee. "I know you must be cold and weary. A light supper and then bed, eh? Perhaps you will sit with me while you sup; I am anxious to know you and to make you feel at home."

The words were kind in themselves, but the tone, the extraordinary charm and warmth of his voice, made tears come to my eyes. We did as he directed, and soon the heat of the roaring fire, fatigue, and sheer relief made me sink into a dreamy haze. I remember only one other thing about this evening, but it woke me like a dash of cold water. We were sipping a glass of wine-against the chill, Mr. Wolfson said-when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move in the shadows behind the desk. I paused, with my glass at my lips. Somehow the shifting shadows were all wrong. The movement could not have been made by a man; it was located at waist level, as if something crept on hands and knees behind the desk.

Mr. Wolfson saw my look of apprehension.

"I have forgotten to introduce you to two important members of the household," he said with a smile. Extending one hand, he snapped the fingers. From the shadows emerged the creature he had summoned.

The glass fell from my fingers and shattered on the hearth. The creature was a dog-but such a dog! Its head was on a level with Mr. Wolfson's breast when it came, obediently, to stand beside his chair. Its coat was grayish and short; the long bushy tail and elongated nose were those of a wolf, and as it lapped at his fingers, in a horrid parody of doggish affection, I saw the long white fangs am wetly in the firelight.

"My dear child!" Mr. Wolfson turned a look of concern upon me. "I am sorry. Are you so afraid of dogs?"

I could only shake my head dumbly and shrink back into my chair. A second dog had followed the first. It was somewhat darker in color, but the same immense size. With its mate it flanked the man in the invalid chair like animals on a coat of arms.

Ada leaned forward, holding out one clenched fist to the nearer dog's muzzle.

"Harriet has been terrified of dogs since she was bitten a child. I protect her from dogs; she protects me from all else."

"Indeed?" Mr. Wolfson considered us in turn. "And a air of charming protectors you are. I am afraid, my dear Ada, that Fenris will not respond to your overtures. She and Loki are perfectly harmless, but they have not been trained to be pets."

The dog had turned its head to sniff at Ada's hand, but nee it had made this gesture it turned back again without giving any demonstration of interest or normal canine affection.

"They are certainly formidable," I said, regaining my wits with an effort. "How still they sit! They look like statues of dogs. What are they, if not pets?"

"Guards." For a moment Mr. Wolfson's face lost its good humor. His lips drew back. Suddenly I could see a resemblance between the animals and their owner. He had a set of excellent teeth, large and white as-But that is folly, and I will not write it. He went on calmly, "We live in a remote district, my dears, and I am a poor helpless invalid. Loki and Fenris are my protection, and very effective protection they are."

"You-a helpless invalid?" I exclaimed. It was involuntary, and I blushed as soon as I had said it. But Mr. Wolfson seemed pleased. He laughed and dismissed the dogs with a small movement of his hand. They trotted back behind the desk and subsided. We did not see them again. But I did not forget them.

I do have a mild fear of dogs, but I thought I had learned to control it; half my public fear was for Ada's benefit, since she so loves to protect me from something. Evidently it is not all pretense! It is fortunate the animals are so well trained; beasts of their size and strength could do much damage. And what extraordinary names! Loki, I know, was an ancient Norse god. And not, if I recall, a very pleasant fellow. Fenris-that name is unfamiliar, but it must be Norse as well. I must look it up.

April 21

We have been exploring our new home and its surroundings.

Ada, with her love of animals, found her way to the stables the very first morning after our arrival. I am shamefully lazy in the mornings, so I did not follow until later, and when I came upon her, she had already acquired a mount and a cavalier.

We had little time in London for shopping and dressmaking. Our supply of mourning is limited. So Ada was wearing a sky-blue cloak and hood, lined with white fur, which framed her rosy face. She looked enchanting. The horse was a dainty brown mare which stood, already bridled and saddled, in the stableyard. The cavalier was obviously one of the grooms, from his rough clothing-a tall, dark boy with the slender bones of a horseman. His manner was perfectly correct as he helped Ada to mount, but as she turned her head to smile down at him in innocent (I think!) thanks, the wind blew one long golden curl across her cheek, and his whole frame stiffened in response. I could hardly blame him; but of course I advanced at once, feeling like an elderly duenna.

"Harriet, how late you are! Do hurry!"

"Slowly, slowly, Ada. I know your passion for animals, but have you Mr. Wolfson's permission to ride his horses?"

"Begging your pardon, miss, but Mr. Wolfson gave instructions that you ladies should ride whenever you like. Pamela here is gentled, and there'll be another mare for you."

I looked at the speaker. He was even younger than I had thought, not much older than Ada. His high cheekbones and dark skin seemed alien to Yorkshire, and this suggestion of foreign blood gave me an uneasy sense of kinship.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"David, miss."

"He is the second groom," Ada explained, "but he hopes to be first when old Adam retires."

"How nice," I said blankly. "David, is it safe for us to ride hereabouts?"

"Mr. Wolfson did say, miss, that I or one of the other boys was to go with you. But the horses are safe and gentle. Not that Miss Ada needs a gentle mount."

"She rides like a centaur," I said, smiling. "I am the one who needs the gentle mount."

I got her-a docile old mare named Fanny-and the three of us set out for an exploratory ride.

The abbey ruins are certainly the dominant feature of the landscape. They lie, I suppose, only a mile or two from the courtyard of the manor, and as we approached them I saw that they were much more extensive and better preserved than I had imagined. The walls of the church still stand, although the building is roofless, and one side of the cloisters is relatively intact. At the far end of this side there is a great block of rooms which looks almost habitable. At least the roof is still there, and the windows are solid. I wonder what this portion could have been. Dormitories for the monks, one would suppose, yet the tall tower at one end is more like part of a castle than a monastery.

I was fascinated by the ruins and wanted to ride over at once to explore. But David refused to go.

"They an't-aren't-safe in winter, miss. There's pits there and broken stone underfoot, all covered with snow and thin ice. When the ground's bare and you can see where you're stepping, then I'll take you."

He has an unexpectedly firm jaw, this young man. I might have persisted in spite of the jaw, but I saw the sense of what he said. The ruins will have to wait till summer.

April 27

The weather still continues clear and cold. I wish Ada were not so set on daily exercise; those long chilly rides freeze my bones and bore me to distraction. There is nothing to see but snow and barren trees. We have not even ventured as far as the nearest village, a small place called Middleham. It is three hours' ride, and David does not recommend going so far.

David's recommendations would fill a volume. Not that he is at any time disrespectful; indeed, I rather like him. But there is a quality about him, despite his youth and station, that makes one listen to his remarks and respect his judgment. We have seen a great deal of him, since Ada insists on spending most of her time in the stables, and -I have complete confidence in Ada, but—