Winterwood Read online

The little figure in her long white nightgown was so appealing after that nightmare that Lavinia threw her arms around her.

  “Bless you, little love. I’m so happy for you.”

  “I’m happy, too, because Mr. Peate is leaving us. Did you know? His boxes have been carried down, Mary says. You have slept late, Miss Hurst. Hurry or you’ll be late for breakfast. You may even be too late to say goodbye to Mr. Peate!”

  “And that will not break my heart, as you well know.”

  Flora giggled. She seemed in high spirits.

  “And I’ve also looked in Great-aunt Tameson’s room and she hasn’t come back. That was all imagination, wasn’t it?”

  “Certainly it was. Tell Mary to brush your hair while I dress. Then we may even be in time for prayers.”

  “Let us say a prayer that the Channel crossing is very rough.”

  Lavinia looked out of the window to see the storm-torn clouds.

  “I think that will be unnecessary. But we could hope that Mr. Peate won’t be a coward and refuse to go.”

  She was to remember that remark later.

  Before breakfast was over, Joseph stood at the door saying in a flustered way that there was a young person arrived from London with a large package directed to the Contessa Barrata.

  Charlotte was on her feet, her hand pressed to her heart.

  “What is in this—mysterious package, Joseph?”

  “The boy says it’s a new gown, madam, made to my lady’s order. It comes from Madame Hortense, who has always made for my lady.”

  “But why has it come here?”

  Joseph looked bewildered and nervous.

  “The boy said that was the directions. He’s waiting in the servants’ hall if you want to question him, madam.”

  Daniel threw down his napkin.

  “I’ll question him. Stay there, Charlotte.”

  Only Sir Timothy spoke while Daniel was gone.

  “Curious,” he said conversationally. “Poor Tameson overestimated her span of life. Waste, if it’s an expensive gown. I suppose the dressmaker won’t take it back.” He chuckled appreciatively. “By Jove, the old lady kept her vanity until the end, didn’t she? I wonder where she thought she would be wearing this new gown.”

  The gown was made in Lady Tameson’s favorite violet-colored velvet. It was very grand indeed. There were yards of black braiding around the voluminous skirt, and some very handsome lace on the bodice. A letter enclosed with the garment apologized to the Contessa for not sending it in time for Christmas, but the order had only arrived from Venice on the twenty-third of December, so that it had been quite impossible to fulfill it so rapidly. In any case, perhaps the Contessa herself had not yet arrived. She had said she was about to leave, but dreaded traveling in midwinter, and would break her journey two or three times on the way. She expected to arrive in England on Christmas Day or possibly a day or two later. The bill, Madame Hortense was to send to her niece, Mrs. Daniel Meryon of Winterwood, and she was sure that Mrs. Meryon would also take care of the messenger’s expenses.

  Daniel put down the letter.

  “What’s it all about? You must know.” He didn’t call her Charlotte, or my love, or dearest, as was his usual custom. He simply addressed her in that cool hard way as if she were a stranger.

  “I—know?” she faltered. “But I don’t I haven’t the faintest idea—”

  “Then you, Mr. Peate?” Daniel swung round on Jonathon, who was sitting rigid, dressed in his traveling clothes, his face calm enough but curiously mottled. “You are about to leave for Venice. Don’t tell me this journey is a wild-goose chase. You are expecting to find some person—the person who has been writing these letters and ordering this gown. Who is she?”

  “Dammit, how do I know? Someone with a peculiar sense of humor, to begin with. Certainly I was expecting to find someone. I don’t imagine those letters were written by a ghost. But whoever it is, it’s obviously too late to flush them out in Venice. They—he or she—appear to be on their way to England. Just about here, if that”—he pointed at the letter—“is to be believed.”

  Charlotte sprang up, then stood immobile as if unable to think what to do next.

  Sir Timothy had put on his spectacles and was examining the dress, which Daniel had thrown over a chair.

  “You must admit, Charlotte, this was Tameson’s favorite color. She always smelled of violet scent, too, I noticed. It would be interesting to know what events in her life had given her this obsession about violets. Well, who’s going to stand the bill for this creation?”

  Abruptly Flora began to cry. This was the signal for Charlotte to spin around and cry in a rage, “Miss Hurst, haven’t you the sense to take Flora out of here? This is not for children, this terrible joke. Daniel, that garment has got to go back to London at once. Madame whoever-she-is must be told it’s a mistake.”

  She reached for the bell rope, but Daniel stopped her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m ringing for this to be taken away and packed. The messenger mustn’t be allowed to leave without it.”

  “Don’t do that,” said Daniel quietly. “Let us wait until its owner arrives.”

  “No one is coming! Who could be coming?”

  Daniel turned his stony face to Jonathon.

  “Have you ever noticed,” he said conversationally, “that wherever there is a great deal of money the wolves gather? Or I believe the Contessa called them vultures. So let me persuade you to postpone your departure. I am sure our mysterious guest, who may be arriving at any moment”—he turned to glance out of the window—“will expect to find you here.”

  But Jonathon’s face had gone an unpleasant yellow. The color of cowardice, Lavinia thought. She had a feeling of exultant revenge as she saw that it was his turn to be the one threatened. His eyes were hypnotized like a frightened animal’s. He stared at the door as if expecting it at any moment to burst open and some terrible ghost appear. He was nothing but a craven, after all. He had visibly shrunk. The violet dress spread over the chair was the strange symbol of his downfall.

  What could it mean to him? Was it proof of something he had feared?

  At last he spoke, but not in answer to Daniel’s question. He looked at his watch and said, “I must be off or I’ll miss the ferry. May I call upon your generosity once more, Daniel, and borrow some conveyance to take me to the railway station?”

  Charlotte sprang up. If Jonathon had gone pale with private fear, she was a wraith, wild-eyed, ashen.

  “Jonathon, you can’t go! You can’t leave me now.”

  He gave her one glance and started for the door.

  “Jonathon—”

  “Don’t bother about the conveyance after all,” he said in haste. “I can’t wait for it to be brought round. My own legs will take me faster.”

  The door slammed behind him.

  Charlotte sank into a chair. “You coward!” she whispered. “You coward!”

  Daniel, not gently, pulled her trembling hands from her face.

  “The time has come for an end to these mysteries,” he said harshly. “Don’t let us waste time weeping for that rogue. Let him run away with the furies at his heels. Don’t you agree, Miss Hurst?”

  Lavinia could scarcely express her thankfulness. Although the gale still raged, the morning seemed lighter, gayer.

  “I do, indeed.”

  “He has escaped too lightly, I think, but at least he has gone without what he came here for. Isn’t that so, Charlotte?” He crossed over to the door and locked it. “I believe you know the whole story, and you will not leave this room until you have told it. Uncle Timothy, Miss Hurst, sit down. Now we are alone. The truth, Charlotte. At once.”

  Even then, in spite of the unaccustomed cold anger in her husband’s voice, it was some time before Charlotte could speak. She was literally bereft of words. Several times her trembling lips opened, only to close soundlessly. She, too, was hypnotized by the dress lying across the chair. By the di
lated look of her eyes, she seemed to be seeing a ghostly Lady Tameson in it.

  When at last she began to talk, it was in a disjointed monotone, like someone muttering in her sleep. Something about a funeral. At first Lavinia thought she meant Lady Tameson’s at the church in the village, but then she spoke about the cypress trees being so dark, the sun so hot.

  “She wanted the nice cool earth,” she kept muttering. “And I pretended—”

  “Pretended what?” Daniel was close, trying to understand the restless, whispering voice.

  “It was too late,” said Charlotte, suddenly opening her eyes wide. She saw Lavinia and seemed surprised, as if she had been completely lost in her nightmare.

  “Miss Hurst! Why aren’t you with Flora? Are you sure it’s safe to leave her? I thought you were afraid. She’s much too rich for a child. A child who can’t walk. A cripple. And she gets the fortune while Teddy—my darling Teddy—”

  The wandering voice died away. But the terrible question had been answered at last. There had been an attempt on Flora’s life. By Jonathon Peate? By her own mother?

  Pain creased Charlotte’s forehead.

  “Jonathon made me do that—with the laudanum. It was horrible. But he threatened. He wanted so much. He talked of nothing but money.”

  “How could he demand money from you?” Daniel asked. “What right had he to? Was it because of something that happened in Venice? Because that’s where it began, isn’t it? Tell us, Charlotte.”

  For a little while it seemed again as if Charlotte was not going to be able to speak. But presently she overcame her agitation and began to tell the strange story in a low but unexpectedly composed voice.

  There had been a dead body when she had arrived at her aunt’s palazzo in Venice. The old woman there told Charlotte she had arrived too late. Her aunt was dead. It was a great pity, because there had been no time to remake her will, as she had promised to do, in Charlotte’s favor. As it stood, all her fortune went to various charities.

  The old woman had been Lady Tameson’s companion, an Englishwoman whose name was Sprott. She had one son, Jonathon. He, too, had been at the palazzo when Charlotte had arrived. It was he who had made the clever plan that was going to enrich both Charlotte and himself.

  His mother had heart trouble and was unlikely to live very long. So why should she not impersonate the dead Contessa, who lay upstairs awaiting her funeral? Indeed, the impersonation had already begun, for the doctor who had attended the Contessa and signed her death certificate had been informed that his patient had been Mrs. Amelia Sprott. Jonathon had instigated the deception. He had anticipated Charlotte’s agreeing with him that it would be a disastrous shame if all that fortune went to charity. It belonged rightfully to Charlotte, and of course to him, Jonathon, for his help in such a daring plot. Though he promised not to be greedy. He would demand only a small share, perhaps twenty thousand pounds. When he received it, he would disappear out of Charlotte’s life forever. She could rely on him.

  So the funeral of the supposed Mrs. Sprott had taken place. The new Aunt Tameson waited in her palazzo to be transported to England. There was only one important thing for her to do. Imitate the Contessa’s handwriting. She had to practice a great deal. Everything else was easy. She relished wearing the jewelry and the good clothes and preparing to die a countess. It was true that she had been afraid, at first. She seemed to be intimidated by her son, but the histrionic had an appeal to her, and she had obtained a macabre pleasure from her role.

  But there was one thing no one had anticipated—that she would begin to find Charlotte’s and Jonathon’s scheming too distasteful, that she would despise Edward as a spoiled rude child, and that she would grow to love Flora.

  She had quarreled with her son when he came to see her at Winterwood because of his greedy demands. This had made her suddenly decide to play her own game. Flora, the sensitive crippled child, should get the fortune that was not hers to give.

  This scheme successfully accomplished and the will accepted as legitimate, Jonathon, in a fury, still demanded his due. Charlotte must provide it somehow; otherwise he would expose her, and she would not only face criminal charges but all that great fortune would disappear from the Meryon family forever. However, if Flora were to accidentally die, Jonathon pointed out diabolically, and what was she but a poor useless cripple, the money would remain in the family, and accessible.

  When the clumsy plot on Flora’s life failed, Charlotte was sickened, and tried to placate Jonathon by going to London, taking her jewelry from the bank and giving it to him to sell in New York. There were wealthy men in New York, the new railroad and oil tycoons, who would pay large sums for genuine ancestral diamonds to hang around their wives’ necks. At last Jonathon, perhaps a little cowardly himself about such a dangerous scheme as child murder, agreed to accept this payment and leave. But he refused to leave before Christmas because he had other business to complete, more romantic business. He had made a proposal of marriage.

  So they would be gay until Christmas. Charlotte would wear her beautiful gowns to drive away gloom, and Jonathon would enjoy the hospitality of Winterwood to the full for these last days.

  But again their plans had gone awry. The letters had begun to come from Venice.

  Who had been buried in Venice? Was the Contessa not dead at all?

  Charlotte had thought the letters another trick of Jonathon’s to frighten her into obtaining more money. There was no doubt it was he who had slipped upstairs and rung the little silver bell in Lady Tameson’s room and, counting on the servants’ alarm, had been able to leave the room unnoticed. But these letters were another thing. They had come direct from Venice. Had his mother tricked him, and the woman who had died not been the Contessa at all? Was she due to arrive at Winterwood, as the letters said?

  Even Charlotte, sitting there like a ghost, talking now as if she could not stop about the coffin, the jewels, the gondolas making a black shadow on the blue water, the laudanum to make one sleep, the carelessly shrilling cicadas, Jonathon’s voice constantly in her ear demanding more and more, could not answer the final question. There was nothing to do but wait and see who might arrive.

  The morning was endless. Lavinia didn’t suppose five minutes went by without someone jumping up to look out of the window. But the drive, curving away beneath the leafless trees, remained empty. It continued to rain, water dripping off the sphinxes’ heads, and lying in glassy pools on the paving stones and the rose garden. The day was gray and brown and dull amber. Fires crackled cheerfully in all the rooms, but the wind howled in the chimneys and the heavy depression was indoors as well as out.

  Lavinia kept Flora in the yellow parlor, and at her request Mr. Bush brought Edward there, too. The young man was ingenious at inventing informative games to be played with pencil and paper, but for once Flora failed to respond pleasurably to this activity. She was as much on tenterhooks as everyone else.

  The day wore on and there was no sound of carriage wheels, no vehicle laden with traveling boxes and a mysterious occupant coming up the drive. They were waiting for a ghost.

  Just before dusk Charlotte’s control broke. She disappeared upstairs and came down in her riding habit. She said she was suffocating, she must get out, she must ride.

  “Don’t be mad! It’s blowing a gale,” Daniel protested.

  “But I am mad,” she shouted back at him, laughing, her eyes shining in her white face. “You’ve always known that. Haven’t you, my love?”

  “Charlotte, I forbid you to go out alone.”

  “Oh, I’m not alone. Peters is here with my horse.”

  “Then keep him with you.”

  “Of course. Why are you fussing so? You know I can ride, gale or no gale.”

  She could, too. She looked superb as she galloped away, a slim upright figure completely at one with the horse. Lavinia saw Flora watching her, her face tight and still, and knew suddenly why the child had once ridden so recklessly and fallen. She had been
competing with her beautiful mother.

  Daniel put his arm around her shoulders.

  “We’ll have you mounted again in a few weeks, my pet.”

  “A few weeks! Why not this week, Papa?”

  “You may be walked around on Nicky, certainly.”

  “Nicky! My old pony! Papa, are you crazy?”

  “No. And neither do I intend you to be. You will have patience.”

  But although his voice was kind, it was abstracted. His mind had followed Charlotte on her wild gallop. Did he think he should have prevented her going, or at least gone with her to protect her? But could anyone protect her from the furies that must now pursue her?

  Another slow hour went by. Sir Timothy came in to report that he and Simon had finished their game of chess, and Simon had won. The boy was getting too good.

  “By Jove, Daniel, this house is like a morgue today. Everyone sitting about as if they expect the crack of doom. No sign of our anticipated traveler yet?”

  “No,” said Daniel shortly.

  “Then we can give her up for today.”

  “Why do you imagine the sex of this person is feminine, Sir Timothy?” Lavinia asked.

  “There’s no question about it, Miss Hurst. Only a woman would behave in such a devious way. Anonymous letters, violet velvet gowns! That only comes from a most romantic mind. This is a damn bad business all round. I don’t know what’s to come of it.”

  Daniel turned from the window and came to kiss Flora on the forehead.

  “Upstairs with you.”

  “Oh, Papa, no!” Flora’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Why am I to be sent away? Am I not allowed to see the lady who arrives?”

  “It is highly doubtful any lady will be arriving. Do as I say.”

  Flora knew her father well enough to realize that this was one occasion when blandishments would not sway him. In any case, she had to admit that she was extremely tired, and would be glad if Joseph would carry her up the stairs.

  “For quite the last time,” she assured him. “Tomorrow I will be much stronger.”

  Lavinia, gathering up Flora’s belongings to follow, lingered long enough to hear Daniel calling for a hurricane lamp. He was worried about Charlotte.