Moonshadows (3 page)

The old lady pulled away, her eyes flickering up at her granddaughter.

“I promise I won’t do anything if you’ll tell me what it is I’m not supposed to do anything about.”

Janet straightened up and flexed her arms over her head.

“Really, it’s nothing,” she said, tugging the waistband of the Save-The-Whales sweatshirt down around her hips. She glanced up at the portrait over the mantel. The painter had captured the stern glint in Lionel Lancaster’s eyes and the hard line of his mouth.

“He was always so serious, wasn’t he?”

Elizabeth Lancaster was slow in answering. “He was.”

Janet turned. “You miss him still?”

“I shall always miss him.”

Janet sat back down on the ottoman. “Were you happy?”

“Yes dear, we were happy.” She returned the glasses to her face and peered up at the picture. “Oh, there were a few rough times, I suppose there always are. But he was considerate of me. I was still a young woman when my health commenced to fail and he was most solicitous of my feelings and privacy. That’s when he moved from the master chambers and established his own quarters in the west wing on the third floor.”

“Just down the hallway from my art studio.”

The old lady closed her eyes for a second. “He seemed happy there and we continued to be good friends to the end. We shared many hours of interesting and stimulating conversation. Companionship seemed to suffice for both of us.” She wagged a bony finger. “Oh, but there was never any doubt who was head of the household.” She reached for Janet’s hand. “And what about you, young lady? Is there no special man in your life?”

Janet smiled to herself as she considered Adam Hastings.
A special man
? Not by a long shot.

“No, Grandmother. But there will be, someday. I’m sure of it. I’m learning to be very selective.”

The topknot wobbled on the old lady’s head. “The best, Janet.” She pointed again. “Only the best—or what is the best for you—is good enough. Always remember that.”

Janet smiled. “I will.”

Her grandmother looked pleased. “You need to get married. You’ll be thirty before long. In my day you would already be considered a spinster, and that was the height of unacceptable behavior and still expect to receive invitations to the proper social functions. I want to know you’re being cared for. My fondest wish is to see you happily married before I—”

“Ssh,” Janet said. “I will. Just give me a little more time.”

Cupping a frail hand beneath Janet’s chin, Elizabeth Lancaster studied her granddaughter. “I wish your father could see you now. So beautiful. So good. He would be proud.”

“Thank you, Grandmother. Your approval means a lot to me.”

Janet leaned her head forward and rested it against the knees of the old woman.

Twisted, gnarled fingers touched the wayward braid. “My little hearth cricket,” she said, as if musing to herself. “My little sunshine-topped pixie. And to think, we almost didn’t have you.”

Such a strange remark
, thought Janet. Why had they almost
not had her
? Had she been merely an accident? Was that all she was—just happenstance? She raised her head to question such a strange statement, but her words were cut off by the sound of an opening door. Trent stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other fingering the gold watch-fob that dangled across his sparse middle section.

“Dinner is served, Madam.”

“Thank you, Trent.” Elizabeth Lancaster put away the book and straightened her shawl. “We must go in now, Janet. But after dinner we’ll come back in here and have a serious talk.”

Janet rose and reached to help her grandmother to stand. She was shocked to feel the sharp angles and hard ridges of bone beneath the thin layer of clothes.

All through dinner, Janet watched her grandmother. Elizabeth Lancaster nibbled food from the end of her fork and took tiny sips of water. In the bright glow of the crystal chandelier, her skin was nearly transparent and tinged with a hint of unnatural blue. Above the Victorian-laced collar, her pale cheeks were sunken beneath dull and lackluster eyes. Janet knew that her grandmother was gravely ill. Shortly, the old woman pushed back from the table and teetered to her feet.

“If you will excuse me my dear, I think I shall retire early.”

Her words came with difficulty and her breathing labored.

Janet leapt to her feet. “Grandmother, you must allow the doctor to see you right away.” She gave the child-sized arms a determined shake. “I’m going to call Doctor Darby and have him come by first thing in the morning.”

“Very well, Janet. I suppose an examination would be in order. I have been a little short of breath lately.”

Janet led the ailing woman up the flight of stairs. At the top and to the right was the master suite that took up nearly the whole of the second floor. Easing her down on the bed, Janet knelt and untied the laces of the marshmallow-soft oxfords.

“Thank you, dear.” Her voice was raspy and weak. “I’m afraid our talk will have to wait.” She patted Janet’s hand. “I’ll lie here for a moment, then ring for Lettie to help me prepare for bed.”

“Can I stay a while?”

“No dear, I’ll be fine with Lettie. You finish your dinner and then you may ring Doctor. I’ll see him in the morning. After that, we have some very important things to talk about.” With a flutter of her hand, she motioned Janet away.

Reluctantly, Janet turned from the room and closed the door behind her. Trent had mounted himself at the foot of the steps when Janet returned to the first floor.

“Has Madam had another one of her spells?” he asked.

Janet wrapped her hand around the newel post. “Spells?”

“It’s happened several times lately. We’ve tried to persuade her to allow Doctor to be called, but she always refused.”

“Well, she hasn’t this time. I’m going to call him right now.”

“Thank God for you, Miss.” Janet could see relief in the tired old eyes. “We—all of us here in the house—were getting very concerned for her. We talked about taking it upon ourselves to call you, but didn’t want to go behind Madam’s back. We’re mighty glad you’re here now.”

Janet patted his arm and turned toward the study. She thumbed through her grandmother’s directory and found the doctor’s number. He answered the phone and was pleased to hear that her grandmother had finally agreed to a checkup.

“I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve just
happened
to stop by for a visit and suggested—in a ‘by the way, while I’m here,’ sort of way—even the most rudimentary of examinations.” He chuckled. “I don’t have to tell you what a formidable foe your grandmother is. So rest assured Janet, I’ll be there early in the morning before I go down the mountain to my hospital rounds.”

“Thanks, Doctor Darby. I don’t know what the Lancaster household would’ve done all these years. You’ve been a blessing.”

“My pleasure, Janet,” he said and hung up.

Her appetite had vanished, so returning to the table simply to shove the food around on her plate made no sense. Again she climbed the stairs. She paused outside her grandmother’s door. From inside, she could hear Lettie’s soothing ministrations and her grandmother’s muffled replies. The voices were low and unintelligible, but Janet knew that her grandmother was in capable hands. Realizing she could do nothing further, Janet continued on her way to the familiar bedroom on the third floor.

W
ithout undressing, Janet stretched crosswise on the bed. Sleep came only in snatches of minutes as she twisted and turned on the hobnail bedspread. Great concern for the health of her only living relative moved like a mournful specter, floating around the room, lurking under the bed and behind the drapes. Even the childhood comforts of Ken and Barbie from elementary days, high school pennants and pom-poms, or the life-sized poster of Jon Bon Jovi during his long-haired reign, all of it here just as she had left it, gave her little solace.

Following the death of her parents, Janet had been installed in this very room and raised with loving, but rigid standards, by the same lady who now lay weak and frail in her bed on the floor below. From the earliest times Janet was taught that the Lancasters do not retreat from life; rather, they meet it head-on and on their own terms. Elizabeth and Lionel Lancaster had been bound and determined that she learn the lesson well, and they would not let even the death of her parents distort her vision of the future.

Janet’s childhood had not been one of pampering and privilege. She attended public school and was expected to bring home A’s, or at the very least an occasional B-plus. And she had worked hard, determined not to disappointment them. She remembered the chunky little Volkswagen doodle-bug her grandparents had given her the spring she graduated from high school. She always had the feeling that the car had been her grandmother’s idea. Lionel Lancaster was never prone to generosity. The car was bright orange and probably the last one on the lot to be sold—who else would want such a color? But Janet loved the car and considered it her magic pumpkin that would someday turn into a golden carriage and carry her to Prince Charming. After handing her the keys, her grandparents insisted she take them for a spin, but Janet simply refused to drive that particular stretch of highway on Laurel Mountain where her parents had been killed.

Her grandmother had seized Janet’s chin between lean, hard fingers. “Listen to me, young lady,” she said, the strength of her voice matching that of her fingers. “You must not let the past dictate your future and how you will live the rest of your life. I will not allow you to do that. It’s cheap and it’s common, and you’re neither of those things. Now, drive.”

Janet had driven.

Now that strong and determined figure was no longer the pillar of strength Janet had always assumed her to be. She was old and mortal and quite possibly near death. Janet flipped over on her back and scrunched the pillow beneath her head. She watched the ceiling and concentrated hard, trying to will some of her energy and power of her youth to her grandmother. Not that she believed in such nonsense. Janet was much too practical to believe in transference hocus-pocus. But she did believe in the power of love
.

At long last, night faded and cracks of pale gray began to seep in around the edges of the drawn drapes. By now the ground floor would be up and stirring with morning preparations. Eager for news, Janet jumped out of bed and headed for the adjoining bathroom.

The house lay still in the early dawn as Janet started down the stairs. Lettie and Trent had stationed themselves outside the closed door of her grandmother’s room. They stood silently, their hands to their sides, and watched as Janet approached.

“Has the doctor arrived?”

Trent nodded. “He’s with her now.”

“He’s been in there over an hour.” Lettie’s voice was hushed.

Janet settled in beside them and leaned against the wall. “Maybe it won’t he much longer.”

They huddled outside the door, waiting for word. It was less than five minutes when the knob turned and the door swung inward. Doctor Darby glanced at the three of them and shook his head. He dropped the tattered bag down on the floor beside his feet.

“Janet, I’m glad you’re up.” He nodded toward the door behind him. “She’s in a bad way, I’m afraid.”

Janet pushed from the wall. “Is it her heart?”

The doctor nodded. “I suggested moving her to the hospital in Middlebrook but she flatly refused.” He took a deep breath. “Given her age, I really don’t think it would make a great deal of difference. I’m surprised she’s lasted this long.”

“Grandmother has a lot of determination, Doctor Darby. She won’t give up without a fight.”

“I appreciate that, my dear. But this is more than even she can handle.”

“Can I see her?”

“I don’t see what harm it would do, although she’s probably asleep by now. She’ll sleep most of the day, but when she wakes see that she remains calm and comfortable. I’ll leave her medication instructions with Lettie and see that Cook has her diet. I’ll stop by again in the morning, but in the meantime if there’s any change, call me right away.”

“I will doctor, and thank you,” Janet said before she slipped through the doorway.

The room was overly warm and smelled of sickness, of pain and age and futility. The tick-tick-tick of the wall clock reminded Janet of fleeting minutes, of used-up hours, the finality of time.
And once it’s gone,
she thought,
there is no more
. Only the long sleep of death, and the memories of the one who had died. The airless chamber resonated with the raspy pull of labored breathing. Her grandmother looked like a lost child in the center of the bed with its turned carvings and posters that nearly reached the fifteen-foot-high ceiling. She looked haggard and worn lying there against the elegant lace-trimmed pillows. Her eyes flickered open and she smiled at Janet. Blue veins stood out on her trembling hand as she reached up. Janet took the hand, shocked at its coldness.

“I have to talk to you,” her grandmother murmured.

“Sssh,” Janet whispered. “The doctor said you had to stay calm. We’ll talk later, when you’re stronger.”

“Have to talk to you,” she insisted. “About the will.”

The door opened and Lettie entered carrying a tray. “Time for your medicine, Mrs. Lancaster.”

The old lady made a feeble attempt to protest but Lettie, ever efficient, gently propped her up with one hand and administered the medicine before a second protest could be made.

“Doctor said it would make her sleep,” she said to Janet. “Why don’t you come downstairs and have your breakfast. Cook has it all ready for you.”

Janet nodded. “Just as soon a she falls asleep.”

Lettie adjusted the pillows and straightened the covers. Gently she smoothed back the silver hair and touched the patient’s brow before she turned and left the room. The knowledge that her grandmother was in such capable hands was reassuring to Janet. She had never doubted for a moment that the household staff was totally committed to the safety and well-being of their employer.

The old lady did not try to speak again, but gave into the effects of the medication and was soon asleep. Janet’s bones, stiff from lack of rest and exercise, protested when she stood up. She stepped to the bed and kissed her grandmother’s cheek before tiptoeing from the room.

The gentle, elfin-like creature known simply as Cook came scurrying from the kitchen carrying a silver tray. With plump, rosy cheeks, and the corners of her mouth turning up in a perpetual grin, she could have just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Finger-waves covered her head and were held in place by a nearly invisible hairnet. She set the tray on the table and cut her eyes in Janet’s direction.

“Now you set yourself down and eat a proper breakfast, Miss Janet. You’ve hardly had a decent bite since you’ve been here.” She wagged her finger. “Oh, I seen what you left on your plate last night; didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.”

“Thanks,” Janet said, spreading the napkin across her lap. She lifted the lid on a server filled with fluffy scrambled eggs surrounded by thin strips of tender ham. “Looks heavenly.”

To the side was a plate of flaky biscuits, still steaming. A trio of crystal bowls held jams and jellies made from fruits and berries from the estate grounds. Growing up, Janet had done her part in the canning process. She had peeled more than her share of apples and peaches and picked many a basket of blackberries. Cook saw to it that nothing at
Heather Down
was ever wasted. Janet pushed away any evil thoughts of cholesterol or calories or carbs and dug in with great gusto.

After a breakfast that would bring no further reproach from Cook, Janet again checked on her grandmother. She found that her breathing was more regular and her sleep seemed natural. A hint of color was beginning to return to her cheeks.

Retracing her steps down the stairs, Janet turned left at the bottom and went out the front door.

She stood for a moment on the porch. The autumn sunlight felt good on her shoulders and had already begun to warm the air. Along the edges of a nearby juniper bush, silver strands of a web had been tatted into a delicate lace. It seemed that Janet wasn’t the only creature on the grounds that had endured a sleepless night. She grinned. At least the spider had been productive.

Freshly cut grass clung to Janet’s tennis shoes as she stepped from the porch and across the dew-dampened lawn that spread out before her like a sequined ball gown. She walked down the gentle roll of grounds that sloped away from the house to the lower green. The well-tended estate was indicative of the order insisted upon by the lady of the manor. Demanding only the best performance of herself, she would settle for nothing less from those who served her.

Janet turned and looked back at the house.
Heather Down
had been designed and built by Jason Lancaster upon his arrival in America from England. He’d hired a labor force to cut stone blocks from a nearby quarry and paid top dollar to get the best masons possible. Timbers cut from his land were sawn and hewn to his exact specifications. He would have nothing but the best of craftsmen. Once the house was completed, just as he had promised, he returned to England for his intended bride. But the harsh northern winters in America had dealt severely with the delicate Heather, and the weather, coupled with complications from an early pregnancy, was more than the eighteen-year-old girl could stand.

The baby, a boy named Nathaniel, survived, but Heather was the first to lie beneath the sod of the family cemetery. Jason Lancaster never remarried but spent the remainder of his life amassing a greater fortune and seeing that Nathaniel was properly educated to carry on the family legacy. Nathaniel’s only child, Nathaniel II—which was quickly shortened to Little Nate—was the first Lancaster to enter law school and he subsequently ended up on the bench of the state’s high court.

Little Nate married a woman older than himself by more than two decades. Gwendolyn Harrington, a spinster and wealthy in her own right, was considered to be past child-bearing years; and certainly at her age to find herself in the family way was—to put it most charitably—in poor taste. Defying public opinion, the unconventional Gwendolyn was seen out and about in her
condition
and set tongues to wagging. She delivered prematurely a daughter that cost both mother and baby their lives. Nate’s fancy then turned to the other end of the spectrum and he married Sophia, a girl barely in her teens. Of this union came Charles Harrington—
Harrington
in loving memory of Gwendolyn—Lancaster. When it came his turn to produce an heir, Charlie H., as he was called, fathered only one child, Morgan, upon whom the Lancaster clan doted. None of Morgan’s fancies were denied: the finest education abroad, the fastest automobiles, the best barn and corral to house his thoroughbreds. The barn later burned, and it was suspected that Morgan was responsible when he became disenchanted with one of his horses. Morgan came to be considered quite a misfit, preferring to deal with horseflesh to that of a more carnal nature; but he did do his duty long enough to produce an heir for the next generation: Fabian. And, if Janet had the names right, next came Nigel and then Ashton, who begat Lionel Lancaster, Janet’s grandfather.

At no time in the Lancaster lineage did there seem to be an overabundance of progeny to carry on the family name, and the number of surviving female children was nonexistent. Janet suspected that the Lancasters were not a lusty lot and did not breed sturdy offspring.

Continuing on her way from the house, Janet’s steps carried her in the direction of the four-sided bench that wrapped itself around the trunk of a crimson and gold-leafed maple. She arched her spine and gave her arms a couple of swings before dropping down on the bench. She glanced back along the upswept lawn toward the house. Box-like in structure, it stood three stories high. An uncovered porch extended the width of the house and was graced with flower boxes and ornate wrought-iron settees and tables. Tall windows, polished to a high sheen, looked out over the grounds and sparkled in the morning light. Off to the left, where she had parked the night before, was the carriage house. The rooms above it had been converted to a small apartment for Lettie and her husband, Duffy. Lettie managed the house and saw to the personal needs of her employer. Duffy served as gardener and chauffeur.

Janet folded her hands in her lap as a feeling of helplessness pressed down on her. Overhead, the parchment leaves rustled and she whispered a prayer for her grandmother.

Seized by a spirit of restlessness, Janet rose to continue her morning trek. Sweeping around to the right of the house, she ducked under one of the many grape arbors that circled the rear grounds. The vines had produced many a liter of fine wine for the Lancaster dinner table. Janet crossed the yard, stopped and shaded her eyes against the sun. The back of the house was winged, forming a U-shape around an inner courtyard. Large morning-windows, designed specifically to capture the early sunrise, filled the wall of the dining hall on the first floor.