Here I Stay (11 page)

It had rained earlier in the day, and the air was clear as pure water. The arch of the sky enclosed them like a blue glazed bowl protecting a miniature landscape—swelling hills and amber fields, wood and pasture and stream and valley. To the west, where the mountains stood in sharp outline against the sunset, a single bank of cloud remained; the sun, behind it, edged its rim with sharpest gold, like the fringe on a king's purple mantle. As the sun dropped lower, free of the cloud bank, every color in the autumn landscape sprang into clearer focus and brighter color, as water flowing over a pebble turns it into a gleaming gem. Its beauty would change but would not diminish with the passing season; in winter a world of sable and ermine and crystal, and in the spring...Suddenly she felt that she could hardly wait for spring, when dogwood and apple trees were white with blossom and the stream ran deep between banks sprinkled with wild flowers. And she wondered if there could be a lovelier land, in this or any
other world.

"I'm going to move up here," Jim said. "Into this room."

He took the glass from her before much of the milk had spilled. "Jim, you can't possibly—" she began.

"It's always 'can't.' I didn't expect you to understand."

"I do understand. You want to get away from me."

He had braced himself for a struggle. Her stricken face softened and disarmed him. "Not you, Andy— not you personally. I mean, if you're afraid to be alone down there, or anything like that..."

He had offered her a weapon, but she could not use it, not after he had given it with such touching gallantry. Memory weakened her even more—the memory of a desolate young voice saying, "I didn't want to come back."

"I'm not afraid," she said. "That's not it."

He knew he had won. His face lit up with the look she found so hard to resist. "Just look," he urged. "Look at it. It could be the best room in the house. I'll fix it up—paint and paper and everything."

He was right. The quaint, odd-shaped room had enormous charm. It would appeal to anyone with a spark of imagination or taste. She realized that he had already begun work. The litter on the floor had been swept into a pile, and one section of peeling wallpaper had been removed.

"I don't mind your moving," she lied stoutly. "But there's so much to do here! The windowsill is rotten and the plaster on the ceiling is bad.. .And I'm worried about the floor."

She knew he had won. But she couldn't force
herself to make a formal concession, not quite yet. She moved around the room, examining the cracked plaster and stamping on the floor. Maddeningly, it absorbed the punishment she gave it until she neared the door.

"Here—this board sags badly. Probably rotted."

"I saw that: I can fix it."

Andrea knelt. "But if the joist is bad..." Her fingers traced the crack, and she said in surprise, "It's not even nailed down. I can lift it right up."

"Maybe a couple of nails is all it needs." Jim came to her side.

The space exposed when she lifted the board was like a long narrow box, its base the ceiling of the room below, its sides the rough joists. Dust lay thick, like rolls of dirty cotton wool, outlining the shape of something underneath. Jim was quicker to comprehend than Andrea. His breath caught, and he exclaimed, "The board isn't rotted. It was the cover of someone's secret hiding place. Pull out the nails, cover it with a rug, and no one would suspect. What's in it?"

It appeared to be a sheaf of heavy papers tied together into a scrapbook. The ribbon that bound the sheets, now of an indeterminate gray shade, crumbled as Andrea lifted the object out and brushed the muffling dust away. The cover was of heavy cardboard bound in fabric, so filthy that its original pattern could not be discerned, but it had protected the pages inside fairly well.

They were a collection of drawings—pen-and-ink, charcoal, watercolor—and had evidently been done over an extended period of time, for the skill of the unknown artist increased with each page. Flower sketches, doll-faced women in elaborate
bustled gowns, a bride in full regalia, crowned with orange blossoms, trailing yards of tulle. A soldier, far too handsome to be anything but an idealized version of an imaginary hero. Other faces, obviously sketched from life, and far less attractive. They lacked the sure touch of the trained artist, but they had a certain quality; one, of a scowling, wrinkled old man, was almost a caricature.

On the last page was the full-length portrait of a woman. The shape of her body was oddly distorted, probably owing to the artist's lack of skill, but the face was admirable. She wore a highnecked black gown with long, tight sleeves. The boned collar was pinned with a jet brooch, and sable bangles circled her wrists. Her hair, dead-black and lifeless, was pulled back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck. Her head was turned slightly to one side. Black brows slashed across her forehead; and at her feet, half hidden by the folds of the flowing skirt, was...Satan. The cat's eyes had been touched in with vivid yellow, the only color on the page.

"My God," Jim said softly. "The cat is part of her—you can't tell where its body stops and her dress begins. The tail could belong to either one of them."

"Satan's great-great grandfather?" Andrea murmured.

"And then some...It's good, isn't it?"

"Yes." Faint praise for what was unquestionably a brilliant piece of portraiture, particularly for a young girl. Why did she assume the artist was young, and female? She found reasons, after the fact; sketching and painting, embroidery and the pianoforte were the proper occupations of young ladies of good family in the nineteenth century, the period suggested by the costumes. The earlier drawings were the sort of thing one might expect to find in such a sketchbook—flowers and fashions, handsome faces and pretty brides.

The portrait was different. Jim didn't appear to see it, and Andrea was not inclined to draw it to his attention, but the sheer malice of the sketch took her breath away. The subtlety of that malice was precocious and disturbing. The features were not distorted, in fact, they were those of a handsome, stately woman; but the curl of the lip, the vicious slash of the frowning brows...And the cat. Jim had noted the blending of the two bodies, the identity of woman and animal, but he had not understood the implication.

Andrea turned back to the beginning of the book. Now that she was on the lookout for it, she found a small, almost imperceptible flaw in almost every sketch. Small black worms gnawed at the hearts of the roses. Ingeniously masked by the intricacies of ruffles and folds in the fashion sketches were the lines of naked bodies—in one case, the bare bones and grinning skull. The artist's not very successful attempt to understand the underlying anatomical structure was not shocking in itself, but in the late nineteenth century, female modesty was at its more prurient and unnatural. An unmarried girl was not even supposed to know what her own body looked like.

The only drawings that seemed unflawed—and, in consequence, much more vapid—were those of the young officer and the bride. Why, Andrea wondered, were they included in the sketches—the dirty pictures—the artist had hidden from parents and teacher? Slightly sickened, she closed the sketchbook. Viewed as documents of social history, the drawings were a damning indictment of the prudery and double standards that had made Victorian life such a hell for women. Viewed in another way, the girl who had lived in this room was definitely neurotic.

Neuroses weren't contagious, Andrea reminded herself. Jim was in no danger of infection, even if he did breathe the air she once had breathed.

There were two overflowing ashtrays on the library table now. And they had pulled books at random from the shelves, disturbing the neat alignment.

The library was popular with male guests; its dark oak paneling and big chairs had the elegance of an old-time London club. The decor was not seriously marred by the television set, for when this unavoidable amenity was not in use, it was discreetly concealed by a needlepoint fireplace screen. Cousin Bertha's progenitors had not been readers; their acquisitions consisted mainly of elongated sets of "Collected Works," and most of the pages had not even been cut. However, the rows of rich red and soft brown leather spines, gilt-stamped, had a luxurious look.

Andrea replaced the ashtray at Martin's elbow with a clean one. His cigarette dangling from his mouth, he glanced up. "Thanks."

"No trouble. No trouble at all." She started wiping the books.

"The rain," said Martin, responding to her tone rather than her words, "is getting on everyone's
nerves."

"How is the book coming?" Andrea asked pointedly.

Martin grinned, "it isn't. I seem to have hit the
well-known
writer's block."

"And this is your method of breaking it?"

"It's one way," Martin said calmly. "When the imponderables of the present are too much, the pursuit of the past offers escape and a certain sense of balance."

Jim ignored this byplay. Brown head bent over the book he was examining, he said, "We're looking for stuff about the house. It's mentioned in this book."

Happy to see him absorbed in a new hobby,
Andrea looked over his shoulder.
"Old Houses of Western Maryland
—
Minor Mansions.
That's not very flattering."

"Victoriana wasn't in favor when that was written," Martin said. "The
major
mansions of this region date from the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries."

A faded black-and-white photograph, further dimmed by reproduction, showed the house as it had appeared in 1925. It had not changed in essential outline, but even in the poor photo it had a fat, prosperous appearance.

"Cousin Bertha's father must have owned the place then," Andrea said. "She'd have been in her twenties."

"Was her family name Webber?" Martin asked.

"That's right."

"Here it is." Jim pointed. " 'Mr. Josiah Webber, a
well-known
Ladiesburg merchant, is the present owner.' He inherited from his father,
and he
bought the place from...It doesn't say who, just when. Nineteen hundred."

"And, as I suspected, the house was built in 1862," Martin crowed.

"But not by the Springers," Jim added, in antiphonal chorus. "The builder was a guy named Broadhurst. Must have been rich. He owned almost three hundred acres."

"I wonder how he made his money," Martin mused. "War profiteering, perhaps? Shoes of paper disguised to look like leather, rotten food and moldy flour..."

"Pinko," Andrea said amiably. "You think all millionaires get rich by trampling on the poor."

"Back in those days they did. Then they tried to
assuage their consciences, and a wrathful God, by building libraries and orphan asylums."

Andrea abandoned the argument; she never won. "It's all very interesting," she said politely, picking up the dust cloth.

"Not very," Martin said. "Books like this only give the bare bones. They don't tell you about the scandals and the tragedies, the murders and the passionate love affairs."

"What a melodramatic mind you have," Andrea said.

"Life is melodramatic—hadn't you noticed? No novelist would dare invent plots as farfetched as the things that actually happen. This house must have had its share of melodrama. Every old house does."

"Well, I don't want to know about it," Andrea said. She shifted the library steps and climbed up to attack the next row of books.

"Then I don't suppose you would be interested in attending tonight's meeting of the Ladiesburg Historical Association."

"No, I wouldn't. I've got enough problems in the here and now."

"Jim and I are going."

"So that's why you're reading up on the house."

"Doing our homework," Jim agreed. "Sure you don't want to come with us?"

"No, thanks."

It was good to be alone in the house, for the first time in weeks. The men had decided to make an evening of it, dining at Peace and Plenty before going on to the meeting, which was held at the home of a local antique dealer. Wrapped in a comfortable old bathrobe covered with fuzz, Andrea spent the
evening watching the worst television had to offer. Lulled into a stupor by the sheer awfulness of what she saw, she didn't even look at the lists on her lap.