Wherever Lynn Goes, page 15
I must have gone to sleep almost immediately. The room was beginning to fill with light and the clock showed five when I awoke abruptly. Something had awakened me with a start. There was a sharp, piercing clamor. I realized it was the telephone ringing.
I hurried into the hall. Mandy was just stepping out of her room.
“Who in the world—”
“I have no idea. We’d better hurry.”
I moved quickly downstairs, Mandy right behind me. The telephone continued to ring, shrill, insistent. I picked up the receiver, rather breathless from the race downstairs.
“Hello.”
There was no answer, only heavy silence.
“Hello?” I repeated.
“Lynn—” It was a low, hoarse whisper. “Baby, this is Daddy—”
The shock must have registered on my face. Mandy grew suddenly tense, knowing who it was without my saying a word.
“You’ve come home, Baby.”
“How—how did you—” I began.
“Wherever you go, I’ll be there. You’ve come home, Baby. At last you’ve come home—”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Our positions were curiously reversed. In London, I had been unconcerned about the phone calls, convinced they were made by a prankster, while Mandy had been vastly upset. Now I was alarmed and Mandy was almost nonchalant, telling me there was nothing to worry about. Someone was obviously playing a rather nasty joke, she assured me, and it would be foolish to dwell on it.
“I mean, everyone knew where we were going,” she said, “all of our crowd. It would have been easy enough for any one of them to get the number.”
“No one we know would do such a thing.”
“You think not? You don’t really know some of those people. It’s probably one of your rejected suitors—you turned down so many invitations, pet. I could name ten men you refused to dine with. One of them just decided to get back at you. Wounded ego, that sort of thing. Don’t worry about it, Lynn.”
“It—I was so shocked.”
“Naturally. That’s what he wanted. Lynn, let’s get dressed and cook breakfast. Between the two of us, we should be able to manage. I couldn’t possibly go back to sleep now. Neither could you.”
Listlessly I slipped into a full-gathered brown skirt and white knit sweater, putting a pair of sandals on my feet. I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, and I saw the faint shadows about my eyes. The skin seemed to be stretched tautly over my high cheekbones, and I was extremely pale. I went downstairs, to find Mandy already in the kitchen, looking radiant in dark gold slacks with matching sleeveless tunic. Cheeks flushed, velvety brown eyes determined, she was surrounded by pots and pans, dark blue bowls, a dish of unbroken eggs, a hunk of raw sausage, various jams and jellies, bread. A skillet of grease was popping fiercely on the stove.
“I feel terribly ambitious,” she said brightly. “You break the eggs, I’ll slice the sausage. Does that toaster work?”
“It must. We had toast yesterday.”
“Right. That grease is awfully hot. Should I just drop the sausage in or do I do something else first?”
Needless to say, breakfast was a total disaster. The sausage was the consistency of charred leather. The eggs were inedible. We ended up drinking several cups of coffee apiece and spreading strawberry preserves over toast only slightly burned. Mandy made it all seem rather festive, and I felt much better as we lingered at the table, early-morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Lynn.” Mandy’s voice was thoughtful, rather hesitant.
“Hmmm?”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Only vaguely,” I replied. “I was so young when he left for Australia, barely six years old.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“He was large—he seemed frightfully large to me, but I guess that’s because I was so small myself. He had a big face, rather gruff-looking, and dark black hair. He—he used to toss me up in the air and catch me in his arms, laughing, and then he’d hug me tightly and call me his little girl. I—I think he loved me very much.”
“Does it bother you to talk about it?”
“Not in the least. You’re not going to suggest—”
“That he might still be alive and handy with the telephone? Not at all. The idea’s absurd. I was just curious. It seems so strange, his going off like that, leaving you with your aunt.”
“I was heartbroken,” I said, remembering quite sharply the pain I had felt when Daphne told me he was gone. “He never said good-bye. I—I suppose he wanted to avoid an emotional scene.”
“It must have been quite traumatic for you.”
“It was. I cried for weeks. I never could understand exactly why he left, but I think it must have had something to do with some sort of business venture. He wasn’t a successful man—that’s why we came to live with Aunt Daphne in the first place, because there wasn’t any money. I think he must have gone to Australia in hopes of making a new start. I suppose he planned to come back for me.”
“Did your aunt ever talk about him much?”
“Never. She tore up his photographs, too. I remember that distinctly. I think she was angry with him for going off like that, leaving her with the responsibility for me. She resented me, all the years I was here. She made that quite obvious.”
“Didn’t your father write?”
“Oh yes. Once a month, regular as clockwork. At least she let me have the letters—most of them. Of course, she opened them and read them before giving them to me. I could read quite well by that time.”
“I know, luv, you were a regular little prodigy, whipping through the complete works of Balzac at ten. Staggering.”
“Sometimes he sent presents,” I continued, finding it strangely comforting to be talking about him. “I remember a doll, obviously handmade, with a stuffed rag body and brightly painted face. I loved that doll, kept it for years—Lord knows what eventually became of it. I seem to remember a little red box, too, quite pretty. I kept trinkets in it. I suppose Aunt Daphne threw it out years ago.”
I sighed, looking down at the empty blue coffee cup. “He died when I was thirteen. My mother, of course, had died before we ever came to Devon. It—it wasn’t a bad childhood, really. I had all the books I wanted to read, a whole library full of them, and I had the woods to roam in. Aunt Daphne let me do pretty much as I pleased so long as I kept out of her way and didn’t associate with any of the village children. I was lonely, but I had never known anything else.”
Mandy stood up. “You’re depressing me, luv. I wish I’d never brought it up. Look at this mess! Did we do that? I’ve never seen so many pots and pans in my life. They must have multiplied while our backs were turned.”
“I’ll help. It won’t take us long to clean up.”
“No, you run along. You’re still a bit pale. A walk in the gardens will do you good. I’ll attend to this. I may not be able to cook, but I’m terrific with dirty dishes.”
I protested, but Mandy was quite firm, and I could see that it would be futile to argue with her. Shooing’ me out of the kitchen, she began banging the pots and pans around quite happily, probably reminiscing about her days as a waitress. I took her advice and strolled out into the gardens, feeling rather melancholy, still a bit worried about the phone call. I was puzzled by Mandy’s about-face, too. In London she had been near hysterical about the calls. Why, then, did she pass this one off so lightly? Was it because she had seen how upset I was?
It was a splendid morning. The air was fresh and clean, inebriating, the kind of air one never encountered in London. Colors were sharp and vividly defined: leaves green, jade green, dark green, brown, bluebells a bright blue, hollyhocks a vivid purple and red against the mellow gray wall. Tiny silver snail trails glistened on the flagstones, and the earth was a rich, loamy brown. Even the house looked better this morning, large and sprawling, leafy shadows playing on the sun-washed walls, the multi-level roof gleaming a dull bronze spread with chimney shadows.
It was hard not to be cheerful on such a morning, and I could feel my melancholy slipping away, feel strength returning. Everything was going to be all right, I told myself. Lloyd would be here this afternoon, and the men from Scotland Yard were already at work. The phone call had upset me, but it would be foolish to brood about it. The sun was warm on my cheeks, and the air was like a fine wine, reviving me, driving away the worries that plagued me.
Following the path around the side of the house, I came upon Bart’s car parked in front of the carriage house, the back seat filled with a jumble of books and boxes, tennis racquets, shoes. The trunk was open, his ancient typewriter set beside a heap of clothes, the familiar cricket bat sticking out. There was a peculiar sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I realized what it meant. The door upstairs slammed, and I turned to see him coming down the stairs, arms laden with more clothes. He saw me, nodded, and moved past me to pile the clothes haphazardly on top of the others.
“You’re leaving?” I asked.
“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
His voice was polite, his manner amiable enough, but there was an invisible wall around him. He stood there in the sunlight wearing brown loafers, tight denim trousers bleached the color of bone, and an exquisite bulky-knit crew-neck sweater of oatmeal tan, speckled with brown and rust. He had never looked more appealing, and he had never been so distant. Feathery black locks tumbled over his brow. He smiled, but there was no warmth. His vivid blue eyes regarded me with cool objectivity. There was so much I wanted to say, but the words seemed to stick in my throat. He didn’t make it any easier. He rested his hands on his thighs, looking slightly impatient.
“You—you don’t have to leave,” I finally said.
“I think it’s best this way, don’t you?”
“I—yes, I suppose so.”
“I’ve already talked to Hampton over the phone. There’ll be no trouble about the second will. You’ll get everything.”
“I don’t want it,” I replied, sounding childish.
“Neither do I. I don’t intend to argue with you, Lynn. I think we pretty well covered everything yesterday.”
“I guess we did.”
There was a long silence. He tapped his fingers restlessly against his thighs, waiting, definitely impatient to be rid of me. I looked into his eyes, and I knew I had deceived myself. I had, finally, lost. I had loved him for years without even knowing it, and now that I knew it was too late.
“Well?” he said.
“I’m sorry about yesterday, Bart.”
“Are you?”
“I shouldn’t have made those insinuations. I know—I realize how unfair I was.”
“Forget it.”
“Where will you go?”
“To the inn, right now. I’ll stay there a couple of days or so, then after this thing about the wills is settled I’ll move on to London. I have the flat there.”
“I—see.”
He was stiff, unyielding. He saw how uncomfortable I was, and made no effort to help. He didn’t care. I was simply one he’d missed, one he had failed to seduce.
“Look, I’ve got several more loads to pack up. If there isn’t anything else—”
“The latches. I haven’t paid you for them. I’ll—”
“Don’t bother. Consider them a gift.”
I wanted to plead with him, beg him to stay, but my pride prevented it. I looked at him, and I could feel my cheeks coloring, feel the anger begin to mount—blessed anger, preventing the other emotions from taking hold. There was no reason for him to be so cold, so bloody unyielding. I had apologized, and if he wanted to sulk, if he … Thank God he was leaving before I made an even greater fool of myself.
“I insist on paying you,” I said crisply. “I don’t want to be under any obligation to you.”
“I’ll not take your money.”
“How much did they cost?”
“Listen, I don’t want to fight. Okay? I’m liable to lose my temper again and do something foolish, say something foolish.”
“Like you did yesterday.”
“Like I did yesterday.”
I stared at him, longing to say something that would demolish him but unable to think of it. Bart smiled a crooked smile, one eyebrow slanting up at the corner.
“Too bad we couldn’t hit it off,” he said. “Believe me, the loss is all yours. Maybe one of these days you’ll realize that.”
“Your conceit knows no bounds.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m insufferable. No argument. You’re lucky to be getting rid of me.”
“For once we’re in complete accord.”
He started to say something else but thought better of it. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head good-naturedly, and went back up the stairs, leaving me standing there with burning cheeks. I wanted to scream. I walked quickly around to the front of the house and hurried up the steps. Then I stopped, as I felt the tears run down my cheeks. I wiped them away angrily, furious with myself. He had deliberately humiliated me, made me feel shabby, and I was glad he was leaving—genuinely, sincerely glad.
I don’t know how long I stood on the veranda, holding on to one of the peeling white posts, a prey to conflicting emotions that swept over me in waves. I heard him loading the car and, some time later, heard the motor starting and watched him drive away. He stared straight ahead, not once looking back, and the car disappeared around a curve between the tall leafy trees, and then there was only sunlight and shadow on the drive, making patterns as the wind caused branches to sway.
I was in a wretched, irritable mood when I went back inside. Mandy met me in the hall, a puzzled crease between her brows.
“Bart knocked on the back door while I was still in the kitchen,” she said. She held up a set of keys. “He gave me these.”
“He’s gone,” I explained. “He drove away a few minutes ago.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You needn’t snap my head off!”
“I—I’m sorry, Mandy. I went for a walk, as you suggested, and I felt revived, felt so much better, and then I ran into Bart and—and he managed to spoil everything, just like he always does. He’s gone now, and I’m glad.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He’s going to the inn. He’ll stay there for two or three days, then he’s going on to London.”
“Oh well.” She lifted one shoulder in an actressy shrug and sighed. “I’d rather hoped he’d be around to cook dinner tonight, but I suppose we can order something in the village and bring it back. I wonder if Cooper’s Green has a Wimpey’s.”
Neither of us mentioned Bart’s name again. I wandered around restlessly, and Mandy made a couple of telephone calls, speaking low as though she was afraid I might be listening. One, no doubt, was to Sergeant Duncan, and the other was probably to her agent in London, who, I knew, had asked her to check with him. I was sitting on the leather couch in the library and looking moodily at the wall of books when she came in. There was a purposeful expression on her face.
“Lynn, it’s after ten. I guess we’d better get on up to the attic and start sorting through the junk.”
“Whatever for?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about the jumble sale?”
“Oh Lord!” I groaned.
“You also told Myrtle you’d try to find time to gather up a few things to bring with you. Remember?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Come on, don’t look so glum. It’ll be fun to prowl around in the attic. There’s no telling what we might find.”
Reluctantly I followed Mandy upstairs and down the hall. We climbed up the narrow attic stairs, opened the door, and stepped into a vast, musty, crumbling world of old barrels and piles of dust-covered books, magazines dating back to the turn of the century, trunks, old dress forms, antique lamps, and broken, discarded furniture. Rays of sunlight stirring with dust motes slanted in through the high dormer windows. The bare wooden floorboards creaked noisily as we moved across them. In spite of myself, I felt some of the old fascination for the place coming back.
Staring around at the accumulation of several generations, I felt an overwhelming sense of the past, and there was a touch of nostalgia as well. I remembered by-gone days when, with the oil lamp shedding a warm yellow light and rain pounding on the roof overhead and lashing against the windows, I had amused myself for hours exploring the treasures to be found in the old trunks smelling of camphor and dry silk and lilac. Curled up on the faded rose sofa with broken springs and lumpy cushions, I had studied the pictures in the yellowing magazines and imagined myself living in those days of horse-drawn carriages and velvet furbelows. In the old viewer with its wooden handle and foggy lenses, I had looked at the stiff cardboard scenes of Rome and Venice, faded a pinkish-brown.
“An antiques dealer would go out of his mind!” Mandy exclaimed, interrupting my reverie. “What a fabulous old Victorian lamp! Look at this glass, Lynn. Tiffany? I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Mandy’s enthusiasm was boundless. Far more knowledgeable about such things than I, she kept pointing out treasures that would fetch a good sum on the antiques market. Oblivious to dust and cobwebs, face smudged and gold slack suit getting deplorably soiled, she threw herself into the job with that vital energy I had always admired. Between the two of us we managed to fill a sturdy cardboard box with less-valuable items: brass candlesticks, ivory fans, costume jewelry, a pretty lamp, various old but still usable items of clothing. After the box was filled, Mandy sat down on the floor, leaned her back against the wall, and began leafing through a book of fashion plates we had come across earlier. I was rummaging through the old oak cabinet on the other side of the room.
“Fantastic!” she called. “Lynn, these should be framed. They date back to the eighteen eighties! Bustles, parasols, fur muffs …”
