CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SHE CONDUCTED THEM SLOWLY TO THE STAIRCASE, COVERTLY glancing at her image in one of the two huge mirrors that flanked either side of the hallway. She seemed pleased with what she saw. She walked straighter then and began leading the way up the stairs, the sound of harsh bird cries resounding from the garden below. She looked downward, pausing for a moment.

“You will find,” she said, “that the house gets a bit chilly in the evening. I’ve placed extra blankets in your room and there is plenty of wood should you wish a fire. Nancy will help you with anything you need.” After this announcement she sailed slowly up the stairs like a stately vessel on a calm sea. She filled in the ensuing silence by stating they would meet Nancy later.

“Nancy hasn’t been feeling well, I’m afraid,” she said. “But she will be here to help with dinner this evening.”

Ron nodded.

As their curious little procession made its way along the second floor landing, the woman continued to make conversation. Simultaneously, wild ravenous cries of birds echoed from below. The sound came in even waves like a strange chant.

Ron’s gaze passed quickly over a wolf’s-head carving in stone. The head protruded from its pedestal base like a sentinel midway down the corridor. Beyond, other statues hovered in the shadows, their massive bodies and faces roughly carved and strategically placed.

The harsh sound of bird cries stopped suddenly.

Mrs. Taylor said: “I’m hopeful that you’ll have an opportunity to meet my Aunt Beatrice during your brief visit with us. She doesn’t get out much, and she so loves to meet new people.” She turned then and opened a large oak door. “I believe the accommodations will be to your liking.”

The room had been beautifully cleaned and graciously prepared, as though it had been prepared some time ago for guests who had never arrived. The bed was turned down, the linen everywhere was fresh and smelled of lavender. The furniture was old and ornate, pieces gathered with loving care through the years, perhaps purchased at various auction sales. An oak sideboard with a large hand-carved crystal mirror, scrolled-back matching chairs, a magnificent rosewood desk, dressing screen and brass four-poster bed with lace canopy. Orchid-colored drapes rose from the polished pegboard flooring and curved hugely into an arch above the bay window, which opened out onto a balcony. On the dresser, a fresh bouquet of roses.

Mrs. Taylor, in a subdued voice, said, “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

Chandal released her breath but did not release her hold on Ron’s arm. “It’s lovely,” she breathed.

“It used to be brother’s room,” Mrs. Taylor said solemnly. “He wrote his first sonatas at that desk. Lovely work, really. I can’t help believing it remains some of his finest work.”

She paused momentarily, then opened a connecting door to reveal a large bathroom, another room actually with an oval window, that was perfectly appointed. “And your room, young lady,” she said, “is right through this door.” She opened yet another connecting door. “If you please.”

Kristy stepped into the room slowly, then stopped. Ron could see that his daughter was impressed. Who wouldn’t be? The room was almost identical to the first.

“If you should need me for anything,” Mrs. Taylor said, “you’ll find me in my room which is downstairs off the terrace. I prefer living below. Fewer stairs. And I do love my garden. Morning, noon, and night.” She drew a deep breath and, with a gesture of eloquence, added: “I do so love a well-groomed garden. Perhaps you had noticed my Venus flytrap. Magnificent. Just a delight.”

Kristy tugged on Chandal’s arm. “What’s that, Mommy?”

Mrs. Taylor smiled down at her. “It’s an insectivorous plant, my dear. Yes, it feeds on insects. Later, if you like, I’ll show you how it functions. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes!” Kristy wailed, then glanced thoughtfully up at Ron. “Can I, Daddy?”

“Well...” Ron hesitated.

“Good.” Mrs. Taylor dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief which she had taken from her sleeve. The scent of lavender in the room immediately became stronger. “Now if you will excuse me, it is time for my nap. Just make yourselves comfortable. If you wish, you may see the rest of the house. All quite interesting.” Slipping the handkerchief into her sleeve, she turned to Chandal. “Shall we say dinner at seven-thirty? Or is that too late?”

“No. No, that’ll be fine.”

She turned, then, and went silently from the room to the hallway, closing the door behind her. No sooner had the door closed and the sound of her steps disappeared, than Ron dropped wearily onto the bed. Instantly Chandal noticed the tense look on his face.

“Ron, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said. “It’s just not your typical Holiday Inn, that’s all.”

“Then that makes it a real nice surprise, doesn’t it?”

“It’s that, for sure.” He gave the room a long, even glance, then fell back on the bed. “It’s just not for me, I’m afraid.”

Kristy’s voice broke in. “Daddy, can I go look at the Venus flytrap?”

“Later, sweetheart.”

“But, Mrs. Taylor—”

“Is taking a nap!” Ron snapped. He quickly raised up on his elbows. “Tell you what,” he said. “Run down to the car and get your toy box and doll. When you come back, you and I will walk through the rooms of this ancient tomb and see what we can see. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Be careful on the stairs.”

“I will,” she said and left the room.

Chandal hesitated. “Well, as for me—I feel a whole lot better now that we’re here.”

“Better—how?”

“I don’t know. Safer.”

He laughed. “Because of all the show?”

“You think that’s silly, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“My mother would have loved this house. She was always after my father to leave...” Chandal broke off.

Ron immediately sensed her tension. “Your mother was always after your father to leave New York.” Ron paused. “New York, right?”

“Yes.”

They were both silent for a moment. “Del?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering, do you still... you know. Do you think about New York? The carriage house?”

“Ron, look!” Chandal moved quickly to the fireplace. Carefully she lifted from the mantel a well-posed photograph exquisitely mounted on a mat of deep blue velvet, encased in aging, yellowing ivory. “Who do you suppose he is?”

Ron glanced at the face in the photograph. “Mrs. Taylor’s brother, probably.”

“Handsome enough.”

“I guess. Del, about New York...”

Chandal made a gesture with her hand to stop him from speaking further. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “New York is forgotten. The carriage house, the brownstone, it’s all forgotten. I don’t want you to mention it again. Ever.”

It hardly came as a surprise to Ron; her reaction to the past had always been as violent as his own. Still he wished he could say to her what had constantly been on his mind lately. He wished he could say simply: Chandal, I’m trying to reach out to you, but I have forgotten how. Are you still you? If so, please listen. There was a time, a time long ago. Are you still back there... can you tell me that? Is the woman with the violet eyes still with you? “Chandal?”

“Yes?”

And he was surprised that he had actually spoken her name aloud. He laughed at last, a husky chuckle, and his brown eyes stared mischievously into hers. “Hey, come on,” he said and took hold of her hand. “Let’s investigate.”

“What about Kristy?”

“She’ll catch up. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later they were walking slowly through a vast room, counting windows. Twelve, each of them enormous and all oddly designed. At the far end of the great chamber was an immense fireplace with massive stone gargoyles supporting the mantelpiece. Ron sat on the window ledge that faced the mountains and surveyed the room. An emptiness of inconceivable grandeur.

“Why do I love this place?” Chandal breathed.

“I don’t know. I hate it.”

“You really do, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ron shrugged. “Because it’s old, I guess. Imagine trying to heat the damn thing. I would end up cursing God every winter.”

“No, it’s so... elegant. Like a different age—it has style.”

Chandal leaned her head against a carved stone pilaster and began to laugh, her laughter echoing in the huge chamber.

“What’s so funny?” Ron asked.

“Oh, God, just think, if we hadn’t gotten that flat, we wouldn’t be here.”

“And that’s funny?”

“Oh, Ron, I love this place. I really do. And I thank you, sir, for bringing me here.”

With a last soothing touch of her hand on Ron’s face, she smiled wistfully and quit the room.