The Unloved (42 page)

Marguerite barely felt the exhaustion that permeated her body; indeed, as the night had worn on, she felt an increasing sense of well-being. At last everything was once more going to be as it should be. She was oblivious to the storm now, her entire being occupied with her preparations for what was to come.

The chair lift clattered to a halt for the final time, and she unbound Ruby’s body, letting it slide to the floor in front of the doors to the ballroom. Coiling the rope neatly, she laid it carefully on the seat of the lift, then bent down, unheeding the burning pain in her right hip. She slipped her hands under Ruby’s armpits and, still bent over, hobbled backward into the ballroom, where she placed Ruby’s body with the others. She straightened up, smiling softly as she surveyed her work.

But something was missing. Something—some small detail—wasn’t quite right.

And then she remembered. She hurried down to the second floor and along the corridor to her mother’s rooms. In the small parlor, still sitting on the mahogany gateleg table, she found what she was looking for.

The music box.

It was large, nearly two feet square, and there was a small crank protruding from one side of its rosewood case. She touched it lovingly for a moment, then turned the crank. At last, almost reverently, she lifted its lid.

Inside the box a large metal disk began to rotate, and a soft and gentle melody filled the air. It stirred memories in Marguerite’s mind, memories of times when she had been a little
girl and her mother had played the music box for her and begun teaching her how to dance.

She frowned, for something in the memory was hurtful.

And then she remembered.

Her mother had made her dance to the soft strains of the simple waltz for hours sometimes, until her legs ached, and she was afraid she might collapse from exhaustion. But when she’d complained, her mother had only rewound the box, driving her on … on.…

“I never did,” Helena’s rasping voice screeched from Marguerite’s own lips. “You were lazy. If you’d had your way, you never would have danced at all!”

“No,” Marguerite’s own voice pleaded, “I wasn’t lazy, Mama. I just—”

Her voice shifted again, this time in mid sentence. “Don’t you dare contradict me, young lady!” Helena’s voice shrieked. “After everything I’ve done for you! Don’t you dare!”

It was Helena’s hand that snaked out and slammed the music box shut, cutting off the gentle melody, but Marguerite’s own voice that whimpered quietly in the silence. “But I tried, Mama,” she whispered. “I just—I’m sorry, Mama.…”

Her mind felt fragmented now, and she stood still, holding her head with her hands, feeling as if she might explode. Her madness battled within her and her body contorted, her torso twisting painfully as she tried to writhe away from the pain inside her head. And then the pain began to numb her mind as she fought against the memory of her mother that had come alive within her as she’d stood by the crypt earlier that night.

She’d loved her mother—all her life she’d loved her mother. And if it hadn’t been for the accident the night she fell down the stairs …

She floundered then, trying to remember that night. What had happened? What, truly, had happened?

“You want to know?” her mother’s voice cackled. “I can show you, you know. I can show you all of it!”

“No!” Marguerite breathed, but even as she uttered the word, she surrendered her mind to her mother.

The pain in her head ceased, and as if in a trance, she moved
out of the small parlor, crossed the bedroom into the dressing room, and pulled open a large shallow drawer, nearly five feet long and three feet wide. A ball gown lay in the drawer, its color long since faded with age, its hems frayed. But now, in the dim light of the single candle that lit the room, it looked to her as if it were brand new. It was a beautiful dress, made of emerald-green satin, with a bodice worked in pearls of the palest pink. She reached out and touched the dress, and three of the tiny pearls tore loose from their rotting threads, rolling unnoticed into the corner of the drawer.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving the ball gown, Marguerite began stripping off her bloodstained clothes until she stood in only her bra and panties.

She began searching then, searching for the petticoat that would hold the gown’s skirt out and rustle softly as she moved. She found it at last and put it on, then gently removed the gown itself from the drawer.

She stepped into it, easing her arms through the sleeves, then carefully buttoning up the high bodice. The top of the gown, made from the sheerest lace, tore in her fingers, but she didn’t see the tiny rents in the fabric, didn’t see the pearls that had fallen away from the scalloped pattern over her bosom.

She went to her vanity then and began repairing her makeup. She added color to her cheeks and lips, then patted a layer of powder over the heavy grease. She leaned forward, brushing mascara onto her eyelashes and covering the smudges below her eyes with heavy shadow. At last she turned her attention to her hair, braiding it into two long plaits which she coiled high on top of her head, held in place with two silver combs.

At last she stood up and moved to the tall mirror in the corner of her dressing room.

Through the mists in her mind she stared long and hard at the reflection in the mirror, and saw the image of Helena Devereaux, exactly as she had looked that night so many years ago, when all of her dreams for her daughter had been shattered, finally and forever.

She went back to the parlor then and picked up the large rosewood music box. Carrying it almost reverently, she left
the suite of rooms at the end of the corridor and started back toward the staircase. She was moving easily now, and the pain in her hip had ceased. Her limp, too, was gone, and she walked with an even step, moving regally through the house, the hem of her dress barely touching the floor. At last she came to the stairs and started up.

Julie listened at the door of the nursery, her face glistening with tears, her whole body trembling with fear and the exhaustion that the hours of terror had brought with them. It seemed as if the sound of the chair lift would never end. Four times it had moved back and forth between the first floor and the third. But what could her aunt have been doing? And then, a little while ago, she’d heard Marguerite’s uneven tread coming down the stairs and moving along the corridor toward her grandmother’s room.

She’d listened for a long time then, her fear growing as the silence in the house dragged on.

Once, for a few short moments, she thought she heard the faint sounds of music, but then the wind had come up again and drowned it out. And, of course, it was impossible anyway—the electricity was off.

But now she heard footsteps in the hall once more.

Even footsteps, not the strange, ominous sounds of her aunt, moving stiffly, dragging her right leg behind her. She wanted to cry out to whoever was there, scream to them for help. But something stopped her, something held her back.

Then she heard the footsteps fade away as whoever was in the house went upstairs, and she hurried to the broken window, leaning out into the darkness.

She didn’t know how long it had been since Jeff had run off into the storm. It seemed like hours—seemed like an eternity. But perhaps it had only been minutes.

The storm seemed to be easing off. The wind was dying, and even the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle. She felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he would be able to get across the causeway now.

And then she gasped in sudden terror as she heard the soft click of the lock on the door opening, followed by the creak of the door itself. She turned, and stifled a scream.

Jeff stumbled along the road, feeling his way in the darkness. There were only brief flashes of lightning now, and they were far in the distance, lighting only the clouds from which they sprang, to be followed long seconds later by the low rumble of thunder. The road, nothing more than a track of deep mud, sucked at his feet, and every step was an agonizing labor. To his left, the pines, groaning under the weight of rain-soaked moss, seemed to reach out to him like beggars in the night, trying to touch him, grasp him.

And to his right, the sound of the heaving sea, breakers crashing even in the channel, made him shrink back. He was crying now, half out of fear, half out of frustration and exhaustion. His eyes searched the mainland, but there was only darkness there, and finally he gave it up, keeping his head down as he trudged through the rain, his clothes clinging to his skin, his whole body shaking with a chill that seemed to have entered his bones.

The sound of the sea grew louder, and he looked up to find himself almost to the apron of the blacktop road over the causeway. He broke into a staggering run, his breath coming in raling gasps as he sucked in the night air.

And suddenly he was there—he’d made it!

But a moment later, as he stared at the causeway, his instant of elation faded away and he began sobbing once again.

Heavy waves were bearing up from the south, building high as they ran up into the shallows adjoining the causeway, then towering in great masses of black water before they crashed over the road in a maelstrom of churning foam. Then the water drained away, leaving the blacktop exposed for only a moment before the next wave flooded the road again.

For a fleeting second Jeff considered the possibility of dashing the length of the causeway between waves, but knew
it was impossible. He couldn’t even see the other end, and long before he’d made it even halfway across, the water would overwhelm him. He sank to the ground, a feeling of defeat flooding over him.

Until the waves calmed down, there was no way of getting any help at all.

“You’re not ready,” the angry voice of the apparition at the door of the nursery rasped. “Don’t you know your guests are waiting?”

Julie shrank back against the wall. She knew who it was, recognized her aunt’s face even under the thick layers of smeared makeup. And she recognized the voice too.

But it wasn’t her aunt’s voice; there was no trace in it anywhere of the gentle, melodious tones of Marguerite Devereaux. But still Julie recognized it.

Her grandmother’s voice.

Her grandmother’s face too.

She recognized it clearly, now, as the memory of her first glimpse of her grandmother came back to her: that hideous mask of lipstick and rouge, coming down the stairs on the chair lift, smiling at her.

But this face wasn’t smiling at all. Lit from below by the lamp in Marguerite’s hand, eerie shadows played across the grotesque visage, and Marguerite’s eyes, glazed over with insanity, glittered evilly in the flickering yellow light.

A lump of fear rose in Julie’s throat, and her fingers turned to ice as terror gripped her.

Marguerite moved forward, and Julie’s eyes widened.

There was no trace of her limp at all.

Then there was no one else in the house—no one had come to help her after all.

Do what she says
, a voice inside her whispered.
Do exactly as she says
.

Marguerite’s right hand snaked out and slapped Julie across the face. “I told you to be ready at eight, didn’t I?” her voice rasped. Then it rose to a furious shriek. “Didn’t I?”

She thinks she’s Grandmother
, Julie realized with sudden clarity.
She think’s she’s Grandmother and that I’m her
.

“I—I’m sorry, Mama,” she murmured, instinctively mimicking the form of address her aunt had always used with her grandmother.

“Sorry?” Marguerite echoed, her voice edged now with Helena’s acid sarcasm. “Come!”

Her fingers taking on the strength of talons, she grasped Julie’s arm and jerked her roughly toward the door. Outside the nursery, she marched Julie down the corridor to the room that she herself had occupied until only a few days ago. Pushing the door open, she shoved Julie inside, hurling her against the bureau against the wall. Julie winced as her hip smashed into the hard oak, but managed to repress the moan that rose in her throat.

“Open it!” Marguerite snapped.

Julie tried to speak, but had to swallow hard to clear her throat before any words would come out.

“Y-Yes, Mama,” she whimpered. Her fingers groping, she found the pulls and drew out the drop drawer. Inside she found a neatly folded leotard.

“Put it on,” Marguerite commanded.

Her fingers trembling, Julie fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, then stripped off her blue jeans. Finally she began working her legs into the leotard, then her arms. At last, shivering in the thin garment, she turned to face Marguerite.

“Get your shoes.”

Uncertainly, Julie started toward the closet, and when her aunt said nothing, opened the door wide.

In the dim light from the lamp in Marguerite’s hand, she could barely make out a tall rack, each shelf of which was covered with worn toe shoes.

Numbly, she reached out and took a pair, then sank to the floor as she put them on and wrapped their satin ribbons around her ankles.

The shoes were too small, and already she could feel them pinching her toes. She looked up, but Marguerite was staring at her coldly.