The Velvet Room (7 page)

As Robin struggled with the string that held the key around her neck, her mind was seesawing between elation and disappointment — elation that at last she had found a keyhole, and disappointment that it was only to a well. Why on earth had Bridget given her the key to a well? It occurred to her that there might be a treasure hidden under the water of the well, but the disappointment was still there.

The key fitted the padlock perfectly. It turned with a grating sound, and the U-shaped bar clicked open. The lid to the well was made of thick wood crossed in three places with heavy metal reinforcements. It was almost too heavy for Robin to lift, but she found that by pushing she could slide it to one side until there was room to look down. By the light of the last steeply slanting rays of sunlight Robin could see that the well was not really a well at all! It was not as deep as a well should be, and the bottom was perfectly dry. But even more amazing, a sturdy metal ladder ran down one side to the bottom.

Without even stopping to think, Robin was over the side and down the ladder. It was fairly dark at the bottom of the well, but after a moment her eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to allow her to make out the outlines of a door — a heavy metal door that curved to fit the contour of the well. A loop of iron seemed to serve as a doorknob. Robin grasped it and pulled, and the door swung open with a rush of damp air. But there was nothing to see. The door had opened on the deepest darkness she had ever seen.

Robin put out her hand, half expecting it to be swallowed up by the darkness. Then she bit her lip and moved forward one step into the tunnel. Her outstretched hand found the tunnel wall. It was damp, and the surface was rough, as if it were lined with stone or brick. She didn’t go any farther.

Instead, she stood there, one step into the tunnel, and almost cried with frustration. Here she was in a secret passage leading directly toward the stone house, and she knew she would never have the courage to go through it in the dark. And if she went home for a candle, she would not be able to come back until tomorrow. How could she wait that long?

I
T WAS TERRIBLY HARD
to have to close the tunnel door, climb back up the ladder, and shut and lock the well covering. But her disappointment was almost greater the next morning. At breakfast Dad said, “Robin, when you go to Bridget’s this morning, I want you back in ten minutes. I’m riding into town with Mr. Criley today to pick up some equipment, and I want you to come along so we can get your work permit. Now that you’re twelve, you’re eligible for one. Pitting season will be starting in a week or two, and Mr. Criley wants every family in the Village to put as many hands in the shed as possible.”

“Oh, Dad!” Robin had nothing against having a work permit, but today of all days to have to go into town! “Why do I have to have one? I’ve worked without one before.”

Dad frowned. “Only because it was necessary,” he said. “It isn’t now.” Robin could tell there was no use arguing, and really, she knew that Dad was right. She had hated having to hide or pretend she wasn’t working if an inspector came around. But Palmeras House and the secret tunnel! It was just too much of a disappointment.

And because she was so disappointed, everything seemed to go wrong. Robin’s own shoes were too ragged to wear, so she had to wear a pair of Theda’s that were much too big. It was a terribly hot morning, and it was going to be stifling in the cab. of the truck. There seemed to be all sorts of things to be angry about as Dad and Robin walked up the road to the mule barns where they were to meet Mr. Criley.

Hot choky dust swirled up from Dad’s high-topped work shoes and Robin’s dragging feet. Dad coughed, and Robin looked up quickly. The skin of Dad’s face looked thin and tight, and a sharp stab of worry made Robin angrier than ever. Not at Dad — not really — but at the aching fear that so often hit her when she was thinking about Dad. Robin glanced around her, but of course there wasn’t a chance of wandering off right then. So she pushed the thought aside and went back to being angry at Mr. Criley.

“I don’t see why Mr. Criley should care how many people from the Village work in his old pitting shed,” she said sulkily. “He can always get more temporary people than he can use just by going down to the labor office. I mean people like we used to be, before you got this job.”

Dad’s smile looked tired. “Well, Robin, the way I figure it is that if a man’s family didn’t work, they’d have to pay the man himself enough to keep his family going. But Mr. Criley has another reason. He says the fewer fruit tramps he has hanging around the ranch, the happier he is.

It was a relief to have something more definite to feel mad at. “That’s a pretty mean thing to say,” Robin said indignantly. “I knew that Mr. Criley was a mean man the first time I saw him.”

Dad laughed and put his hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Simmer down, Robin,” he said. “Let’s just say Mr. Criley’s a pretty forgetful man. From what I’ve heard, the Crileys were doing a bit of tramping around looking for work themselves not so many years ago.” They both laughed, and Robin felt better.

The ride into town in the cab of the truck might have been fun if it hadn’t been quite so hot and if Mr. Criley hadn’t talked so much. All the way in he explained loudly what an important man he was and how necessary he was to everything that went on at Las Palmeras, or the McCurdy Rancho, as he called it. Dad caught Robin’s eye and smiled now and then.

The stop at the city hall to get the work permit didn’t take long. The library was nearby, and Dad pointed it out, reminding Robin that now that they had a permanent address she would be able to have a card again. That is, soon as the Model T was fixed, so they could get into town regularly. Just looking at the outside of the library made Robin lose herself for a minute, remembering the feel of libraries. There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books. Libraries had always seemed almost too good to be true. It didn’t seem possible that anything as important as a book could be free to anyone — that is, to anyone who had a permanent address.

The equipment that Dad helped Mr. Criley load at the farm-supply store was to be delivered to El Pasto. Robin had heard about El Pasto. It was the part of Las Palmeras that was still really a rancho, because cattle were raised there and a few horses. It was up in a canyon, south of the main ranch.

When they passed the main gate of Las Palmeras, Mr. Criley stopped the truck to let Robin off. She waved good-bye to Dad and started up the gravel road past the big new McCurdy house. Thinking there might still be time to get to Palmeras House if she hurried, Robin began to run. But she didn’t get very far.

The rolling white gravel and Theda’s too big shoes made a dangerous combination. Robin’s ankle turned, and she came to a sliding stop on one bare knee. For a minute the twisted ankle hurt so much that Robin thought it must be a real sprain, and the skinned knee burned like fire. She limped over to the side of the road by the hedge and sat down. She had taken off her shoe and was rubbing her ankle when she heard a voice say, “Hi! What’s the matter with you?”

Robin turned around, and there was Gwen McCurdy looking through a thin place in the hedge. “I turned my ankle,” Robin said, putting her shoe back on quickly to hide the hole in her sock.

“Let’s see.” Gwen came around the end of the hedge and knelt down beside Robin. She was wearing a white sunsuit with a short ruffled skirt, and her blond hair was tied back with a matching ribbon. “I don’t think it’s really sprained,” she said. “It isn’t swelling.”

“It’s all right,” Robin said. “It’s almost stopped hurting.” She stood up quickly and tried to walk; but it hadn’t really stopped hurting, and she couldn’t help limping a little.

Gwen looked concerned. “Look,” she said, “come on in the house. Then if it doesn’t get better pretty soon, we’ll call Doctor Woods and have him look at it.”

“Oh no,” Robin said. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Well come on in anyway, and wash off your knee. If you let that dirt stay on, it’ll get infected. Here, lean on my arm.”

Gwen grabbed Robin’s arm, pulled it across her shoulders, and started for the big white house. Robin tried to protest. She felt silly, but it seemed even sillier to jerk her arm away. They struggled up the wide front stairs and into an entry hall full of huge curved surfaces and glass panels that glowed with light. Wide curving stairs covered with thick carpeting led upward.

“Do you think you can make it up the stairs?” Gwen asked. “We’ll go up to my room. Nobody’s home except Carmela — she’s our maid. She always screams at the sight of blood. You should have heard her the time I fell off Mirlo,”

All the way up the stairs and through an upstairs hall Robin determinedly watched her own limping feet in their scuffed and floppy shoes. A stubborn feeling made her refuse to look around. Somehow the whole thing reminded her of last winter, when Cary had come home dragging a lame and scrawny dog. The thought made her want to giggle, but at the same time it made her mad. At least she wasn’t going to bounce around and lick people’s hands.

But when they reached the door of Gwen’s room, Robin caught her breath in spite of herself. “It’s beautiful,” she said. Gwen only shrugged.

The room was all yellow and white. Sheer yellow curtains over big windows made the white walls seem washed in sunshine. The low bed had a headboard of white leather, and the spread was white too, except for three huge yellow daisies. A thick rug of very pale yellow covered the floor. There was even a small white piano, and a table with a telephone.

Gwen brought bandages and a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom and, without seeming a bit squeamish, cleaned and wrapped the bloody knee. Robin was impressed. She wasn’t a bit sure she could do that without feeling a little bit sick. Then Gwen flopped down across the white bed with her chin in her hands.

There was the uncomfortable feeling that someone ought to say something, and it didn’t look as if Gwen were going to. “Do you play the piano?” Robin asked.

Gwen shrugged again. “I’m supposed to,” she said, “but I don’t much. Mother used to play, and she thinks I ought to. I hate it.”

“I used to play,” Robin said. “I liked it. At least I did then. Maybe I’d hate it too, now that I’m older.” She got up and hobbled over to the piano. In Fresno there had been an old piano that had been Dad’s. Robin had never had real lessons. Dad had taught her. He used to say that if he had half Robin’s talent, he’d never have given up his music. “May I try it?” Robin asked.

“Go ahead,” Gwen said.

Robin touched a few keys. The piano had a good sound, clear and true. A little shiver ran up Robin’s back. She sat down and played a scale. Her fingers were stiff and clumsy, and at first she was sure she had forgotten everything. But she hadn’t really, because in just a minute a tune began in her head and flowed down to her fingers. It had been one of her favorites. After the first few bars she remembered what it was: the minuet from
Don Giovanni.
Partway through she stumbled and stopped. The minuet was gone, but there was something else she used to play that was beginning to come back. Slow, dreamy music, beautiful and sad — a prelude by Chopin. It was wonderful to feel it coming back from somewhere deep, deep down. It had been so long forgotten. Robin finished the prelude and just sat, almost forgetting where she was, until Gwen said, “Hey! That was good. I couldn’t play that, and I’ve been taking lessons since I was six. Of course, I don’t practice much. In fact, sometimes I don’t practice at all.”

Robin got up from the piano. To her left the wall was lined with bookshelves. There were several sets of books in matching covers. She ran her hand over the stiff, shiny bindings. She sniffed. The books had a sharp new smell. “Do you like to read?” she asked.

“Oh, sometimes,” Gwen said. “But not much. And not that stuff. Do you?”

Robin copied Gwen’s shrug. “I read quite a bit,” she said.

Gwen got up and took a book off the little table by her bed. “Have you ever read this one?” she asked. The book was bound in leather with red and black trim. It was from one of the sets on the shelf. On the back it said Junior Classics, Vol. 9,
Ivanhoe.

Robin took the book, and it fell open to page 10, where it had been lying on its face. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve read this one. Three times.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Gwen said. “Tell me about it. I mean, everything that happens, and who’s in it, and all that stuff.”

Robin sat down on the bed beside Gwen, and while she turned the pages and looked at the beautiful colored pictures, she began to tell all about gallant Ivanhoe and the lovely Rowena, tragic Rebecca, and the evil Brian de Bois-Guilbert. Gwen listened dutifully at first, screwing up her face in concentration. But after a while she really began to be interested. Her round eyes got rounder, and her mouth wasn’t quite shut. Encouraged by the effect of her storytelling, Robin played up the exciting and awful parts. When she got to the part about the madwoman Ulrica, Gwen took a deep breath. “Boy,” she said. “That’s terrific!”