Joan Smith (6 page)

I remembered my dream, and the handsome man who had kissed me. He had said he was looking for Arabella. Perhaps he was my mind’s interpretation of the man Arabella was going to marry, the one for whom she had jilted Vanejul. No one had mentioned his name, but if that was who he was, I felt Arabella had made a wise choice to ditch Vanejul. A sixteen-year-old maiden would be tender fodder for his cannon.

As I stood, looking at the water and thinking, a fire engine red Alfa Romeo zoomed down from Chêne Bay. A man with purple spiked hair honked the horn, leaned out, leered, and shouted a friendly greeting. Ivan didn’t stop, and he didn’t seem to mind that I was trespassing. There was no sign of the people making the video. Perhaps they had finished. I meant to find out what group it was, so I could watch for the video when it came out. I was beginning to feel proprietary about the neighborhood.

When I returned to Chêne Mow, I felt restless, alone in the house. All those empty rooms seemed to weigh on my mind, making me uneasy. It was too early to go to the pub. I phoned Emily to ask her if I could call tomorrow, and also to hear a human voice. She invited me to tea at three. I envisaged something elegant: thin cucumber sandwiches, and tea served in translucent china cups. It made me realize how rustic my cottage was. I cleared the table and put on the blue cloth, gathered a few flowers for the milk glass vase and put them in the center. The patter of rain against the windows was enough to keep me from going into town.

I poured a glass of sauternes and took Vanejul to the sofa for a long read of the biographical part of the book. Arabella was scarcely mentioned. Professor Thumm wrote that Vanejul had been in love with her. He didn’t say whether she had loved him. He suggested that an ungovernable streak in the Raventhorpe blood was the reason for Arabella’s refusal to marry him. In his youth, Vanejul’s father had apparently killed a man in a duel over a lady—not the lady he eventually married.

The professor hypothesized that when Arabella had become betrothed to another man, Raventhorpe, in a fit of passion, had killed her. There wasn’t much solid fact. He wrote about the other man in her life; he was William Throckley, son of Sir Giles Throckley, Arabella’s cousin and guardian. That would make William and Arabella cousins as well, but marriages were often arranged within the family in those days, especially when fortunes were involved. Both Throckleys, father and son, were dull, sterling characters. The son went on to play a small role in national politics.

There seemed no doubt whatsoever that Vanejul had led a life of licentiousness and vice in Greece and Italy. Actually he spent more time in Italy than Greece, and it was odd his later career was referred to as his Grecian phase. But he died fighting for Greece’s independence, and thus his name became associated with it.

To soften the cynicism of the man, there was also a wide streak of generosity in him. He gave liberally to the poor, and apparently supported several struggling writers and painters outright. He even paid the monumental debts of one of his mistress’s husbands. Charitable indeed! He was involved in a series of scrapes with influential Italians. The journal excerpts chronicling his darts about from Ravenna to Venice to Naples, with assorted officials,
carbonari,
angry fathers, husbands, brothers, and mistresses dogging his trail, were amusing. That he always had friends to aid and abet him suggested he possessed a certain charm. His prose was written in an eminently readable style. I could almost feel I was there, watching his wicked doings. I preferred his prose to his poetry. Vanejul was a novelist manqué.

It was impossible for a woman to admire him, and equally impossible not to feel a grudging interest. He was the sort of rake we would all like to think we alone have the power to reform. If only I had known him! It was easy enough to see why men through the years liked him. He led the scandalous life of a wealthy vagabond, doing just as he pleased, always surrounded by eager women. And there was the generosity, the humor, and eventually the heroic death to enshrine him in a dubious sort of respectability. Altogether a fascinating character, but one felt somehow sullied to read of his exploits.

When I glanced at my watch, I was astonished to see it was one-thirty. I had a glass of milk and went straight up to bed.

Chapter Seven

I awoke in the morning in the blue room with a deep ache in my heart, and some fast-fading fragments of a dream hovering at the edge of memory. I had dreamed again of him, that illusory ephemera, my phantom lover. He had come to me in the night. No spoken words remained in memory, but only a sense of anger so diffuse, I could not say whether it was he or I who had been angry. If I closed my eyes, I could almost remember his dark eyes flashing, his hot lips uttering accusations, which I was quick to refute. I had no idea what we had been debating, or who had won. I felt a great yawning emptiness within, and tried to convince myself it was only hunger.

But the empty feeling continued after I had taken breakfast. Writing was impossible in such a restless state of mind, so I went to the garden to begin the weeding. At that primitive occupation I found peace. The warm sun beat on my shoulders as I rooted out the weeds, tossing them onto the compost pile. The flowers bloomed well enough along the border, but at the very heart of the garden, strangled flower stalks had grown pale and weak from lack of nourishment. Buds had withered. Those that had opened were stunted, but the stems could not support even these small blooms without the undergrowth of weeds. I felt, somehow, that the garden was whispering its ancient wisdom to me. People, too, must clear the underbrush out of their lives from time to time.

An hour was enough to clear my head. I went indoors and wrote until noon. The interval until three, I spent with Vanejul, finishing the cynical poems and rereading bits of the biography and journals. Expecting to find them faintly repulsive, I was surprised to discover my heart had softened. A man was not born a misogynist. Vanejul had obviously been hurt by someone. Perhaps he had truly been in love with Arabella... What sort of woman was she? Had she been a Laura in training, with already the seeds of coquetry sprouting? I refer to the Laura of Vanejul’s poem, not Petrarch’s Laura.

I had read the book to learn what I could about Arabella, but I found my interest, and even my sympathy, begin to change direction. I had to pull myself up sharply. Whatever she had done, he had no right to kill her. This Vanejul was an insidious character. If letters on a page could so easily warp judgment, what must the man have been like in person? I was very curious to see his picture, and Arabella’s, too. The paperback had no illustrations. I would stop at the library after taking tea with Emily. Surely the Lyndhurst library must have books on these local celebrities.

As Emily Millar inhabited one of the finest houses in town and was connected to noble families, I thought a dress might be called for. I chose a white one with green flowers, fluffed out my hair, did my face, and was off.

Driving on the left side of the road still seemed wrong, but I was getting the hang of it now. I reached Emily’s house without incident. No butler met me at the door, as I had been hoping. Emily answered it herself, wearing plaid slacks and a wilted heather sweater that she called a jumper.

“Don’t you look nice, Belle!” she said. “I’ve put on this old jumper and slacks. Come in. I’ve got the kettle on."

No servants were in evidence as she led me into a grand house that would require two or three to keep it in shape. And it was in good shape. The gray marble-floored hallway gleamed. A curved stairway to the left of the entrance also had marble steps and an ornate cast-iron railing. I peered into the main saloon at Persian carpets, long windows with gold satin, pelmeted draperies, what looked like an Adam fireplace, and good antique furnishings.

“We’ll take tea in the morning parlor,” she said. “I had a small fire laid to take the chill off.”

I followed her down the hallway to a cozy little parlor that looked out on a weedless garden. The shabbily comfortable room was done in what the decorating magazines call “English country” style, but more dilapidated. The carpet was quite bare, and the sofa sagged, but there were masses of fresh flowers on tables and an interesting grouping of nature prints on the wall.

“Have a seat, Belle. We’ll sit by the fire. Millie will bring our tea presently. She’s my char; she comes in daily. Live-in servants are impossible to get nowadays. It’s like looking for the Holy Grail to find good servants.”

Millie duly appeared, bearing a fine old silver tea service and sturdy mugs from Woolworth’s. There were no cucumber sandwiches. She served Fig Newtons, which I dislike. Millie was a teenager with a blond ponytail and a sullen expression. When she clattered the tea tray onto the table, I understood why Emily did not use fine china. Emily poured and handed me a cup.

“I’m glad you dropped by, Belle,” she said, with a question in her eyes. She was wondering why I had.

“How did the meeting go last night?” I asked. “Mollie mentioned you and Henry and she were meeting.”

“It was only a partial success. We all agreed a spirit was trying to get through, but he could not make it. Very odd.”

"The reason I came, Emily, I want to write something on the Arabella legend. Mollie mentioned you are some connection to her. I thought you might have some family papers.”

“Oh no, dear. They were kept at Chêne Bay. Gord Throckley handed the whole thing over to some university. Oxford, I suppose it would be. He attended Oxford. You might find something at the Bodleian. But I can tell you there was nothing of Arabella’s in it. It was just boring old family documents about buying land and marriage records and that sort of thing.”

“I hoped there might be some letters from Raventhorpe, or perhaps a diary.”

“A poet like Vanejul must have written her marvelous love letters,” she sighed. “But I suppose when she jilted him, she gave them back to him. They did that in those days. The Vanejul papers are at Oldstead Abbey. They made them available
to Dr. Thumm. If it is a serious, critical work you are doing, they might let you see them. They don’t encourage scandalmongers. You would have to send your resume and a letter from your editor.”

I had no contract with any editor to write about Arabella. I doubted if my list of credits from half a dozen minor American magazines and one historical paperback novel would cut any ice with the Raventhorpes.

“Of course, you couldn’t pester them at this time,” she continued. “You heard about young Adam’s accident?”

“Lord Raventhorpe? Yes, I heard it on the TV last night.”

“Lily, Lady Raventhorpe, is in London. The father is dead. It’s touch and go with Adam. I must send Lily a note.”

“Does Adam look anything like Vanejul?”

“I see some family resemblance around the eyes and hairline, but he is not as dashing as Vanejul.”

She poured another cup of tea, nibbled a Fig Newton, then spoke. “Mollie feels you are psychic,” she said, peering at me from the corner of her eyes. “You seemed to have some knowledge of Chêne Mow before seeing it. Something about the garden.”

“No, I’m not
psychic. It was just a lucky guess.”

“You didn’t feel anything in the blue room? Mollie mentioned a presence there."

“The room was cold. A tree at the window blocks the sun. I ended up sleeping in the blue room after all.”

“Then why is it you’ve decided to write something about Arabella?” she asked bluntly.

“Proximity, I suppose. I’m a writer. I’m living at Chêne Mow. I thought it might be an interesting story. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but that was all so long ago. I do have a little locket of Arabella’s,” she said, brightening. “My great-grandmother gave it to me. Would you like to see it?”

“I’d love to!”

“It’s not the sort of thing that suits me. It’s a young girl’s piece. I’ve put it away in a desk in the study. The desk comes from Chêne Bay as well. Gordie gave it to me when he sold up the place. It’s rather charming. Would you like to see it?”

"Yes, please,” I said, and hopped up to follow her. The study was a miniature of an English gentlemen’s club, with oak paneling, big dark leather armchairs, and an oak desk the size of a refectory table. This was not the desk that came from Chêne Bay, however: That was a lady’s desk, painted apple green, with pink flowers painted on the front. It had porcelain knobs with a brass plate behind them, matching the toilet table in the blue room at Chêne Mow. I mentioned this to Mollie.

“I noticed the toilet table was missing from Arabella’s room. So that’s where it’s gotten to.”

“Isn’t it beautiful!” I exclaimed. “I want to sit down at it and write billets-doux and make romantic entries in my common book,” I said, laughing at my own enthusiasm.

Emily smiled knowingly. "You sound like a Regency lady, Belle. Billets-doux and common book.”

Whatever had possessed me to say that? I had never written a billet-doux in my life, and didn’t have a common book.

“May I?” I asked, putting my fingers on the white knobs to pull out the drawer. I knew what it would look like inside, although I had never opened the toilet table at Chêne Mow. I could see it in my mind’s eye; I could catch an echo of the woody smell. A segmented drawer, the wood a pinkish-brown color, not varnished but sanded and oiled and rubbed to a dull sheen. I was almost afraid to pull it open. I did it slowly, and found myself gazing at the drawer that had been in my head. It was an exact replica. From it came the scent of old wood. I stifled a gasp of surprise and wonder.

“The locket should be right there in that little heart-shaped box,” Emily said.

I lifted the lid of a small papier-mâché box painted blue, with lovebirds and hearts entwined in a flowery vine on the lid. A small golden locket on a delicate chain nestled inside. I lifted it with trembling fingers. This, too, was familiar to me at some deep, subconscious level. I knew what was in it. I eased it open with my fingernail and looked at the two locks of hair; jet black on one side, a blond curl on the other. His and hers, Arabella’s. But who was he? Throckley or Vanejul?