The Lady of Lyon House (21 page)

“You'll find the time,” she said grumpily.

The servant came in with the breakfast tray. There was a plate of crisp, lean bacon and a heap of golden scrambled eggs, slices of ham and a rack of toast. Edward spread strawberry jam over his toast. The servant poured coffee, and Corinne scolded when some of it splashed out into the saucer. She demanded that a new cup and saucer be brought, and she watched the servant with angry eyes while this was being done. When the servant left, Edward burst into laughter.

“Really!” Corinne cried.

“The poor girl had nervous spasms,” Edward said. “Don't you think you're overdoing the dragon bit this morning?”

“No more so than you,” she snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“This good humor! It's disgusting at this hour.”

“I've a reason for it,” he said. “You should be happy, too. You will be, in a few days.”

“I doubt that,” Corinne said.

Her voice was serious, flat. She looked at Edward sharply, and for a moment their eyes were locked. It was as though they were challenging one another across the table. Corinne's hands rested tensely on the edge of the table. There was a dark look in Edward's eyes that was anything but good natured. For a long moment they were like that, and then Edward shrugged his shoulders and grinned and began to eat his eggs and bacon. There was no more conversation during the meal.

I was in the front hall an hour later. The carriage was waiting in the drive, Edward's luggage already resting on the rack, the driver on the seat, ready to drive to the station. Edward came down the stairs, pulling on a pair of yellow kid gloves. He wore a brown suit, a yellow silk scarf at his throat. He looked as merry as a boy leaving school for the holidays.

“I'm off,” he cried.

“So I see,” I replied.

“Don't look so glum,” he told me. “I'll be back before you know it. I'll bring you a present.”

I merely frowned at him.

Edward walked jauntily out to the carriage. Corinne stepped out of the parlor and followed him outside. They stood beside the carriage for several minutes, talking. Corinne seemed to be vehement about something, and Edward appeared to protest. I could barely hear their voices, and I could not catch the words. The carriage drove off. Corinne came tearing back into the house, her eyes blazing with anger.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“What? Wrong! Wrong—”

She seemed about to burst into a tirade of vehemence but she caught herself. She flicked her skirts behind her and went into the parlor. I heard a loud crash. I stepped to the parlor door to see Corinne standing at the fireplace, glaring at a Dresden figurine that was shattered on the hearth. Destroying the lovely piece had given her enough outlet, apparently, for she seemed to be calmer.

“Forgive me,” she said. “That boy will be the ruination of me! Why I haven't sent him packing long ago, I'll never know. It's that damned charm of his, I suppose. An old woman like me is a fool for charm. Beware of it, Julia. When you fall in love, fall in love with an oaf, if you will, but beware of the charmer.”

“I have no intention of falling in love with anyone,” I said.

“La, la,” she cried, her good humor restored. “You will, child. Yes, you certainly will.”

She smiled and flung herself on the sofa, in a much better mood after her outburst. For the rest of the morning, she kept me entertained with stories of her youth, recalling gay, delightful adventures and recounting them with wit and considerable relish. She seemed to have forgotten her argument with Edward.

That afternoon we were in the morning room. It was a tiny room off the parlor, papered in green and white, a cream sofa, a white desk and an overstuffed rose chair the only furniture. Silver inkwell and plume rested on the desk. Through the opened windows we could see the rose bushes and part of the drive. Corinne was curled up on the sofa, paying only scant attention to a novel I was reading aloud to her. The reading had been her suggestion. She seemed intent on keeping me occupied while Edward was gone.

I turned a page and hesitated.

“Are you really interested in this?” I asked. “I find it tedious.”

“Any fool would know the girl is going to run off with the sailor,” Corinne said. “I really shall have to order some new books from London. All these things are so pale—” She halted abruptly, listening.

I heard the carriage wheels crunching on the drive outside, and I looked up to see a trim black Victoria turning in front of the house. A small bald-headed man was driving it. Corinne sat up, her face pale. I was startled as I saw the fear in her eyes. She held the material of her skirt bunched up in her hand. Her lips were parted.

We heard footsteps on the porch and then the sound of the knocker hitting against the door. The sound rang loudly in the silent house. A maid pattered down the hall and opened the door. We heard voices. All the servants had been given instructions to turn away anyone who came, but the maid seemed to be having a hard time of it in this case. The man spoke in a firm, insistent voice.

The maid came to the door of the morning room to tell Corinne that a Dr. Redmund was calling and would not leave until he saw her. Corinne stared at the maid for a moment, her eyes wide, then she told the girl to show him into the parlor. Her voice trembled slightly.

“I won't see that man,” she whispered. “I won't! He has a nerve, calling here. If I want to see him, I'll summon him! Julia, you go see him—talk to him. Tell him that I'm resting. Yes, I'm resting and can't see anyone. Get rid of him!”

“Don't you think you should see him, Corinne? If he's come all the way to Lyon House, it might be something important.”

“I refuse,” she said. “I refuse—absolutely.”

Dr. Redmund was standing by the hearth when I went into the parlor. I introduced myself, and he nodded expectantly. He was shorter than I, a dapper little man dressed in a tight-fitting black suit and a plum colored vest, a chunky gold watch chain draped across its shiny surface. His pinkish face was lined, and his light gray eyes were intelligent. He had a thin mustache over his small mouth, and the top of his bald head glistened like polished glass. A black bag set at his feet.

“Mrs. Lyon is resting,” I said. “She cannot see you just now.”

“I'll wait,” he said, very firm.

“I'm afraid that is out of the question,” I replied, as firmly as he. “She gave me instructions to send you away.”

“I see,” he said, pursing his lips defiantly.

“I'm sorry you've come all this way,” I said, ill at ease.

“I was making my rounds, thought I'd check up on Corinne. You need not look so pained, young woman. I'm used to her whims and tantrums. I must say it was cowardly of her to send you to oust me. In the old days she would have come storming in here herself, insulted me up one side and down the other and then prattle charmingly while I made my examination. I really do want to see her,” he insisted.

“Perhaps some other day,” I said.

“An examination is long past due,” he continued. “She was quite ill a few weeks ago, you know, quite ill. There was some doubt—” he hesitated. “She always has been a remarkable woman,” he began again. “Her recovery astounded me. When I left her, I was expecting a summons from Lyon House at any hour. When I heard she was up and about again, I was dumbfounded! Dumbfounded,” he repeated.

“She is feeling fine,” I assured him.

“I should be the judge of that.”

“She hasn't been at all ill.”

“Riding again, I hear. I forbid her to continue it, of course, but with Corinne to forbid is to encourage. It'll be the death of her. She might keel over, any morning. Foolish woman, damn foolish.”

I did not know what to say. The doctor did not seem to be ready to leave. He folded his hands behind his back and paced the room, stopping to examine various objects. He reminded me of a perky little robin with his black suit and plum vest.

“I've been meaning to call for the past three weeks,” he said. “I have been rather busy, of course, what with babies being born and careless farmers chopping their fingers off and frustrated spinsters having imaginary pains. Very busy, indeed. I expected a summons from Lyon House to come any day. I must insist on an examination,” he continued. “As a doctor, it is my duty to see to it—”

“Corinne will send for you if she needs you,” I said, interrupting him. “She was quite firm in her refusal to see you.”

He shrugged his shoulders and made a grimace. He opened his bag and took out a small brown bottle. He placed it on a table and looked at it with his head held to one side.

“I've been Corinne's doctor for twenty years,” he said, “going on twenty-one. Know her inside and out. This farce, this temperament—it really is damn foolishness, you know. Being difficult for the sake of being difficult—she's too much a lady for that. Isn't necessary.”

He shook his head. His gray eyes were full of exasperation.

“She didn't used to be that way. A lovelier, more charming creature you couldn't imagine. Such beauty—that was a tragedy, losing it that way. I suppose it marked her.”

“Perhaps it did,” I said, irritated with him.

“It's only natural for her to be afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Of death. That's why she won't see me. She's afraid to.”

I waited patiently for him to finish. He made a few more remarks, and then he held his hands out in front of him. He examined them for a moment, then rubbed them together briskly, as if to wash his hands of the matter.

“Corinne is a very old woman,” he said, “and not a healthy one, I'm afraid. It's hard to believe she actually is so old—the way she rants and raves and flings herself about. She refuses to believe it herself, which is why she rides like a hellion and pretends to be such a terror. But she is an old woman. Marvelous, but old.”

I stood very quietly, sobered by his words.

“You still will not let me see her?” he asked.

“No, Doctor.”

“Very well,” he said. “If anything happens, I will not be held responsible. I shall make a note of the fact that I called and was refused consultation. For my own protection, you understand.”

“I understand perfectly, Doctor,” I replied.

Dr. Redmund picked up his bag and started out of the room. I went with him to the porch. He stood on the top step, looking out at the Victoria. The sun glittered on the crushed shell drive. The horse stood patiently in the shafts, a lovely animal with a red-brown coat. Dr. Redmund turned to me and spoke in a grave voice.

“Eccentricity, you know, is all very well,” he said, “but Corinne carries it a bit far. See that she takes the medicine I left. She knows the dosage. Talk to her, young woman, and get her to stop riding every morning. If you don't, the horse is going to come back one morning with an empty saddle.”

He climbed into the Victoria and drove away. I hurried back to the morning room.

Corinne was sitting on the sofa, her back straight against the cushions. Her face was pale and drawn, and it looked like a horribly painted mask. She was like a grotesque doll, discarded by some demon child. She had been listening to the conversation in the parlor; I could tell that. In her hands she clasped a Japanese fan, and was tearing it to shreds. Strips of bamboo snapped, shreds of delicately painted paper tore, the bits and pieces fell into her lap. She did not seem to be aware of what she was doing.

“I heard,” she said. “I heard what that man said.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I should have closed the parlor door. I did not intend for you to hear.”

“It's not true,” she said.

“Come,” I pleaded. “You're upset—”

“That's quite all right,” Corinne said. She stood up. The pieces of fan fluttered to the floor. For a moment she looked very old, very frail, and I knew that the doctor had been right. Then she drew herself up, tilting her chin back. She looked regal then, indomitable.

“The doddering old fool!” she snapped.

“Corinne—”

She swept into the parlor, the skirts of her orange and ivory dressing gown flaring. She flew over to the table where the brown bottle set and seized the medicine. She hurled it across the room.

“There!” she cried. “So much for Dr. Richard Redmund!”

I stood in the doorway, overwhelmed by the angry gesture. I was frightened, too. Corinne moved about the room like a wild animal, her eyes glittering with rage. Her auburn wig was tilted, and the horribly painted face contorted. It was like something out of a chilling melodrama, not real at all—a flamboyant, majestic actress hurling herself into an impossible role.

“He's such a
little
man,” she cried. “Such a small, petty person! He has no scope, no color—no guts! He thinks everyone should conduct themselves like—like sniveling spinsters! I won't. I refuse! I will not be intimidated. I will not be frightened by some petty fool's diagnosis! He can't scare me. He'd like to—oh, yes. But he can't! I refuse to be frightened and spend the rest of my life cowering in bed with smelling salts and medicines and a pink lace bed jacket!”

She paused in her flight. She stood in the center of the room and glared at me. Her voice was low now, and hoarse.

“He thought I was dying,” she said. “The fool. The vulture! I was a little poorly, yes—quite ill, in fact—and that fool tried to make everyone believe—it's preposterous! Do you hear?”

She seemed to be waiting for a reply. I merely stared, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

“He was in love with me,” she continued. “Everyone was then. Such a sniveling little man, so depressing with his bouquet of flowers, his mournful eyes. I scorned him, of course. And this is his revenge, trying to frighten me. I've got more life in me now than he and all his kind will ever have!”