The Master of Phoenix Hall (10 page)

Roderick Mellory poured himself a glass of brandy and drank it with three quick gulps, jerking his head back as though it were distasteful. He stood in front of the sofa, his fists planted on his thighs, looking down at me as though I were an object needing close study. There was a frown on his face, the brows arching like black wings, the lips turning up at one corner wryly.

“You present quite a problem, Miss Todd,” he said finally.

“Really?”

“Indeed you do. Quite a problem.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“A young woman of your age and background, living alone at Dower House. I don't like it. I'm not sure that it's safe. If anything were to happen to you, I would feel responsible.”

He spoke slowly, and each word struck me with terror. Was Roderick Mellory threatening me? He wanted Dower House desperately, and he knew that he could not buy it. He knew after talking with me that he could not talk me into selling it. His money and his persuasion would be to no avail. He was a man who would stop at nothing in order to get his way. Although I could not be certain that his words contained the threat, the menace of the man was evident as he stood over me. Threatening a defenseless woman would not be beyond him. He would find satisfaction in seeing me cringe.

I was not going to give him that satisfaction. I got to my feet, swaying just a little as a wave of dizziness swept over me. He took my arm to support me. I pulled it away.

“You needn't worry,” I said. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Yes. We had a splendid example of that this morning.”

“I must go now. My maid will be frantic.”

“By all means. I'll summon a carriage.”

“You needn't do that. I can walk back to Dower House.”

He pulled a bell cord. He laughed softly to himself. “You are a proud young woman, Miss Todd. I find that admirable, but you cannot walk home at this hour and in your condition. It's almost dark and you are still weak.” A servant came into the room and he ordered the carriage to be brought around. He led me down a long hall and as we waited for the carriage he took a huge black satin cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders, saying the driver could return it. He handed me my bonnet and empty flower basket and put me into the carriage. As it drove away I could hear him laughing. I looked back at Phoenix Hall and saw his dark form on the front steps, doubled up with amusement.

Nan had been frantic, as I had anticipated. If I had not come home when I did she was going to have Billy Johnson organize a search party. I told her simply that I had had a small accident and had been taken to Phoenix Hall. I did not mention the workmen nor Roderick Mellory's timely rescue, feeling it would be wiser for all concerned if the details were not broadcast over the countryside. Nan plied me with all sorts of questions when she saw my torn dress and the bruises on my arm, but I was evasive. She asked me about Phoenix Hall and its Master. I merely said that I had met Roderick Mellory and that I had not taken to him at all.

Three days later there was a knock at the door and the same man servant who had driven me home that night handed me a large flat box. I was startled. The servant left without saying a word. I took the box into the parlor, extremely curious, but not nearly as much as Nan. While I opened the box and removed layer after layer of tissue paper she danced about the room in a state of intense excitement.

Roderick Mellory had promised to send me a new dress and he was good for his word. I wondered how he had obtained the dress so quickly, for it obviously didn't come from any place around here. I took it out carefully, and Nan gave a little cry of pleasure. I looked at the dress, my own reactions quite different. It was a deliberate insult, or else I was mistaken. Perhaps it was a bribe. I could never wear such a dress, not a woman of my station and background, and Roderick Mellory must have delighted in that knowledge when he picked it out.

It was pale white satin with an overlay of exquisite gold lace. The bodice was sewn with tiny seed pearls and scallop after scallop of thin gold lace adorned the skirt. The dress must have cost a small fortune. I had seen such gowns in the theater, and I knew that women of the Court must have worn such creations at State affairs. The dress was suitable for an actress, or for Royalty, but it was certainly not suitable for a former seamstress who now lived in the country.

There was a tiny white card, the handwriting in firm hard strokes of black ink. “A lovely gown for a lovely young lady. I hope to see you wear it soon. R. M.” It was an insult, a deliberate blow at the pride I had displayed to him. I tore the card into small pieces.

“Such a gown!” Nan cried. “Whoever is it from—”

“Hush, Nan,” I said sharply.

“You have a secret admirer. Someone very wealthy—” her eyes grew wide as she realized who must have sent the dress. “Mr. Mellory! He's the one who sent it. Oh, Miss Angel—”

“I must send the dress back,” I said.

“Miss Angel, you can't do that. Such a lovely thing—”

I realized that she was right. I could not send the dress back to Roderick Mellory. That would give him too much satisfaction. He would be all too delighted to know that he had hit his mark. I would not let him know that. I began to lay the dress back in the box, folding the lace carefully and spreading the tissue paper over it. Roderick Mellory would never know my reactions to the dress. Quite simply, I would do nothing. I would not send the dress back, nor would I send a card to thank him. Silence was the only weapon I had against the man.

The next night Nan and I sat up very late in the parlor. Tomorrow was May Day, and both of us were going to the May Fete. Greg had informed me that he was going to have to take all the boys from school to the affair, and I would be an additional chaperone. Nan was going with Billy Johnson, and both of us were sewing on the dresses we would wear for the occasion.

One lamp burned on the low parlor table, and our chairs were drawn up on either side of it. We sat in a pool of warm yellow light, all our sewing things in our laps. It was a comfortable feeling to be surrounded by the silence and serenity of the house. The walls of the parlor were covered with old ivory paper with tendrils of dark green leaves, and the carpet was dark green, faded. The furniture was golden oak, simple and serviceable, and the lamp light shone dimly on the rows of books with their brown and gold leather bindings, I felt at ease, relaxed, having put aside my feelings about Roderick Mellory and now only looking forward to the pleasures of tomorrow and Greg Ingram's company.

Peter lay at my feet, curled up and drowsy, his sleek silver gray head resting on his front paws. Nan's canary sat on his perch, silently pecking at his seed. Nan was sewing bright pink ruffles on the white and green striped dress she would wear to dazzle Billy Johnson and, no doubt, all the other local lads. It was very late and I was sleepy. I wanted to finish putting the stitches in my dress, however, and I sang a little song under my breath in order to keep awake.

Peter leaped up with a start, bristling. Nan dropped the ruffles, her mouth opening in surprise. For a moment we said nothing, both of us so startled by the dog's sudden action. Then we heard something outside the window, something moving. It sounded as though someone was in the garden directly in front of the parlor window. I turned off the lamp. I heard Nan give a little gasp as darkness engulfed the room.

“What—what is it, Miss Angel?” she whispered hoarsely. “I don't know, Nan. If anyone is there, I don't want them looking in on us. Do—do you hear footsteps in the garden? Perhaps Peter had a bad dream—” I paused, listening. There was movement outside. I could not be sure what it was. Perhaps a cat, perhaps the wind blowing one of the tree limbs against the side of the house.

I stepped across the dark room to the window, pushing back the curtain and peering outside. It was a beautiful night, the moon riding on a bank of dark black clouds. It went behind the clouds temporarily, and the garden became a patchwork of velvety black shadows, relieved by tiny pools of silver. The shadows moved, but it was windy and the tree limbs groaned and waved, throwing dark arms of shadow over the garden. I was not greatly alarmed. There could easily be a logical explanation for the noise, and Peter could have been dreaming.

“Is anyone out there?” Nan whispered.

“I don't think so.”

“But that noise.”

“It must have been the wind, Nan.”

“Oh.”

Peter threw his head back and began to howl. Nan clutched her hands together dramatically. I squinted my eyes, peering out at the maze of shadows, seeing the flagstone path shining in silver glow, surrounded by the dark tree trunks, all in shadow. I saw the dark form of the wheelbarrow I had left in the garden and beside it the lumpy half full bag of manure Billy had brought me to fertilize the flowerbeds with.

Then I saw the dark form standing beside the oak tree. It was unmistakably human. I felt a cold chill creep over my body. Nan came up behind me, and she, too, peered out over my shoulder. We watched the man standing there, half leaning against the trunk of the tree. We could see that he was not very tall and had the stocky build of many of the local men. He held a large, flat object in his hand, but it was so dark that we could not tell what it was.

“Miss Angel—”

“Keep still, Nan. The doors and windows are all locked. He can't get in.”

“What is he doing out there?”

“We'll soon find out.”

He moved away from the tree. There was a loud whirring noise of something flying through the air. I pulled Nan away from the window just as it shattered with a splintering explosion of sound. Pieces of glass fell to the floor and something large rolled across the carpet. We heard noisy footsteps as the man ran away. Nan was near hysterics and I gripped her hand tightly. The sound of footsteps died away. It was silent but for Peter's whimpering. He pawed at my feet.

I turned on the lamp. There was a large rock in the middle of the floor, a piece of paper tied to it clumsily with some string. I picked up the rock and opened the note with trembling fingers. It was scrawled in large, half-formed letters, as though written by a child or someone who was not accustomed to pencil and paper. The message, however, was clear: LEAVE DOWER HOUSE AT ONCE. LEAVE BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE. I gave the note to Nan, and she drew in her breath, staring at me with large, frightened eyes.

“It's a prank, Nan,” I said, “merely a silly prank.”

“But—who sent it?”

I knew very well who had sent it. Roderick Mellory had tried to buy Dower House, and he had failed. He had talked with me, and he had seen that he could not persuade me to sell. He had failed there, too. I remembered the words that seemed to have contained a half-veiled threat when he mentioned my being alone at Dower House. Now I knew that the threat had been real. He could not buy Dower House and he could not persuade me to give it up, so now he was going to try and frighten me away. I smiled bitterly, my cheeks flushed with anger. Dower House belonged to me. It was mine and I loved it. Roderick Mellory was not going to frighten me into leaving it. He would fail in that as well. I was as stubborn as he was, and I did not frighten easily.

VI

T
HE AIR RANG
with shouts of laughter and all the bright noise and confusion of a whole countryside at holiday. This was the one day when all chores were forgotten, when frets and worries were put aside. The green lawns on the outskirts of Lockwood were crowded with people of all ages, all of them intent on having a lighthearted, lusty time. Inhibitions were lost, and a permissive attitude guided everyone. Although not nearly so debauched as in the old days, these celebrations derived from the ancient Celtic Priapean ceremonies and the gaily adorned Maypoles still carried that significance. Maids with rosy cheeks were pursued by lads with sun-browned faces, while indulged parents looked on with good-natured smiles.

“They'll all be stone sober and taciturn again tomorrow,” Greg said as we walked down the slope towards the river, “but today anything goes in Lockwood.”

“It seems so contradictory,” I remarked.

“They must let loose once in a while,” he replied. “May Day gives everyone a chance to release pent up energies once a year: It gets very robust later on, particularly after the wine takes effect. You'll see fights and brawls; they're as much a part of May Day as the wrestling matches among the boys and girls, and everyone enjoys them.”

He grinned. “Are you shocked, Angela?”

“Not particularly,” I said.

“Queen Victoria wouldn't approve, but these Cornwall folks have a way of life all their own. Nothing straitlaced on May Day.”

“So it would seem,” I retorted.

There was a crowd of people down by the river, many of the men with goat skins swollen with wine. Accompanied by gales of laughter, they tipped their heads back and squirted the wine into their open mouths. Women in bright skirts and shawls watched over the children who eagerly waited to ride in the canoes that bobbed on the surface of the water. There was a group of young boys, all dressed identically in brown pants and little brown jackets, large black silk bows tied at their necks. They were accompanied by a sober-faced, middle-aged man who looked about disapprovingly. This was Greg's associate at the school, Mr. Stephenson, and he seemed to be having a difficult time restraining the boys.

“I must take them for a canoe ride,” Greg said. “I promised. Will you come along?”

I shook my head. “You go on, Greg. I'll wander around and amuse myself. You'll find me near the carousel.”

“You're sure you don't mind?”

“Of course not.”

I watched as Greg helped herd the boys into three canoes. They were bubbling with excitement and making so much racket that Mr. Stephenson's voice, giving stern directions, was lost in the confusion. One canoe almost tipped over. I was happy to see how delighted the boys were to be with Greg. He joked with them, and they seemed to find him a jolly companion.