The Splendour Falls
I clenched my teeth and didn’t point out that dessert wouldn’t put meat on my bones so much as fat on my butt. When she turned towards the house, I scooped Gigi up and sulked after her. Paula hadn’t said it aloud, but her implication was that Gigi and I were both spoiled. Which might be true, because I was already planning how to get around her on this.
I needed to pick my battles and stay on her good side, even if that meant setting Gigi’s stuff up on the porch and eating Clara’s fattening cobbler. Afterwards … Well, I was still planning that.
Because Gigi was not sleeping by herself outside. As the conversation with John had brought home, she was the only creature in the world who would really care if something happened to me, even if it was only because I was the bringer of kibble.
Even if I had wanted to sleep without Gigi, I wouldn’t have been able to. The night was too quiet. Awfully, horribly silent. No traffic, no horns, no sirens. All I could hear was the creak of the house and the thump of my own heartbeat as I lay in bed and waited impatiently until I could sneak downstairs and get my dog.
Paula was, no surprise, an early-to-bed, early-torise type. But I wanted to make sure I gave her time to fall into a nice, deep sleep. After I’d settled Gigi in her crate on the porch – which was, as promised, completely screened in, and almost, but not quite, like another room – Paula had given me a rundown of the living arrangements. Her suite – a bedroom and small sitting/office area, converted from the former maids’ quarters – was near the kitchen. Clara and her daughter, my nemesis, Addie, lived in an apartment over the garage. According to Paula, one of my great-greats had been very fond of that newfangled invention the automobile, and had the old carriage house rebuilt into a car palace. So ‘garage apartment’ was nowhere as shabby as it sounded.
I was upstairs, in a small room in the back corner of the house. It hadn’t been refurbished yet, and the wallpaper was a faded yellow with a tiny print of pale pink and green flowers. A woven rug warmed the floor, which was spotlessly clean, but scuffed and in need of a polish.
When I’d come up after settling Gigi, I’d found my suitcase waiting for me. I’d stashed my toiletries and undies in the cabinet that served as a closet, then slid the rest of my stuff, still in the case, under the bed. I guess part of me was prepared if Paula kicked Gigi and me out, or I decided to run away, or I got carted off in a jacket with arms that tied in the back.
The brass bed frame was an antique and the mattress felt like one. There was a tiny writing desk under the window, and a small upholstered chair and footstool in the corner. As I lay in bed, I caught a faint whiff of lilac, which I assumed came from the soap on the Victorian washstand, which also held a basin and a ewer. Very quaint. And practical, since I could wash my face without going down the hall to the bathroom.
When the alarm on the nightstand said it was midnight in Alabama – one a.m. by my internal clock – I figured I’d given everyone enough time to reach REM sleep. Without turning on the light – I’d been lying in the dark in case Paula poked her nose upstairs to check on me – I rolled out of my Gigi-less bed and headed for the door.
The knob was a brass oval, darkened with age; I grasped it and paused, listening for any sounds outside, my heart beating a fast and guilty tattoo. You would think I was up to something a lot worse than sneaking in my dog. Maybe I was overidentifying with some ancestress who had to creep out from under the strict eye of her nursemaid. I had no trouble casting Paula in that role.
I brushed off the thought and turned the knob carefully so it wouldn’t squeak. Leaving the door open, I headed to the first-floor landing, where the wood floor gleamed in the light coming through the French doors at the end of the hall.
It had cooled off considerably, and I wished I’d put on my slippers. The chill seemed to travel up through the bones of my feet and ankles and settle in the healed fissures of my leg. By the time I reached the carpet runner covering the stairs, I was shivering in my thin pajamas.The night air eddied through the open centre of the house, brushing the nape of my neck, where wisps of hair had fallen from my scrunchie-knotted ponytail.
The downstairs foyer wasn’t much better. Moonlight spilled through the window over the door, a cold, silver glow. I headed quickly towards the back of the house, to the big kitchen where earlier we’d sat down to Clara’s blackberry cobbler.
The air felt warmer here. So did the tile floor, which should have been icy compared with the wood planks elsewhere in the house. Maybe it was because the kitchen was a later addition, something to do with ventilation or more-modern insulation. Back in the day, most of the cooking had been done in an outbuilding, to keep the heat away from the main house. Paula had told me the present kitchen had been expanded early in the last century, so that food prep could be done closer to the family’s swank house parties. It all sounded very Great Gatsby; apparently Prohibition hadn’t been much of an impediment to anyone’s partying. Not the Davises’, anyway.
The downstairs also featured a formal dining room and a small breakfast nook for future guests of the B&B, but I could tell that the kitchen was the heart of the house, and that was obviously Clara’s doing. Earlier that night, when I’d come in from settling Gigi on the porch, she’d pointed me, with a queenly gesture worthy of a despot welcoming me to her domain, towards a big trestle table that occupied the space once used to stage fancy-dress dinners.
‘Have a seat,’ she’d said. At least she seemed a benevolent despot. ‘I know cold pizza is no way to welcome you to Alabama, but I figured you might like to get to know the kids your age.’
Separating me from my dog was no welcome either, but since that wasn’t Clara’s fault, I didn’t unload on her. ‘Where is everyone?’ I tried to keep the wari?ness out of my voice, since by ‘everyone’ I meant her witch of a daughter. But there was also no trace of Rhys, or Shawn, and I had mixed feelings about that – disappointment, annoyance at myself for being disappointed, relief that I didn’t have to deal with the confused dynamic I felt with Mr Enigmatic or the tug of attraction I felt for Sir Teen Town Council.
Clara had her back to me while she fussed at the counter, so if she reacted to anything in my tone, I didn’t see it. ‘The gang all had their dessert and went home. You were outside a good while.’
‘My stepbrother called to make sure I’d arrived in one piece.’ It made a decent explanation, at least. Changing the subject, I ran a hand over the table, which was dark with age and scarred with use. ‘This would cost a fortune in an antique store.’ Amazing how many reruns of Antiques Roadshow you could watch when you were stuck in bed for weeks at a time.
‘It’s just about the only thing from the original kitchen,’ Clara said, setting a china bowl and a spoon in front of me. I’d noticed all the appliances were shiny and new. ‘I told Paula if I was going to take charge of the cooking in this little endeavour, no way was I using a cookstove from my grandmother’s day.’
I picked up the spoon. The ice cream on top of the cobbler was already melting into a thick white lake around the buttery crumble and glistening purple fruit. This was more calories than I normally ate in an entire day.
Across the table, Clara folded her arms, looking dangerous. ‘If you say one word about carbohydrates, Miss Ballerina, I’m going to pinch your head. Now eat.’
Obediently, I lifted a dripping spoonful to my mouth. I expected it to be heavy, cloyingly rich. Instead, I got magic on my tongue. Fresh berries burst against my palate, the tartness sweetened by light, crisp pastry, all bound together with the cream.
‘Oh. My. God.’ I didn’t even care what it did to my thighs, it was that good.
Clara smiled in satisfaction. ‘Now, that’s a proper welcome to your family home.’
My family home. In the dark kitchen, hours later, I let the scene replay, tracing a hand over the old table. My father had eaten at this table, maybe sharing a meal with his cousins while the adults dined in the formal room, with china and linens. The image was so vivid, it was as though
I were standing on one side of a window, looking through to someone else’s memory.
If I glanced out of the unfocused corner of my eye, I could almost see the servants moving about, preparing dinner. A woman walked past me, laden with a groaning tray, her forearms muscled from the accustomed weight.Details sang in my mind – the black hair curling out from under her cap, the crisply starched ruffles of the apron covering her long calico dress.
The breeze of her passing brushed my skin, and my half-closed eyes flew open. I whirled, and glimpsed the swish of a skirt, the trailing ribbons of an apron, disappearing round the corner, towards the dining room down the hall.
Clara? That didn’t make sense. Or maybe it was Paula, but I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t stop to berate me for being out of bed. Plus, the clothes had been so distinct, and I couldn’t picture either of them wearing linen and calico.
I took a single step after the woman, then stopped, as a dizzying wave of horror grabbed my insides and twisted. There was no one there. There couldn’t be, because I’d been standing in the middle of the kitchen and no one had come in. No one had moved past me but the figures in my imagination.
But I’d felt her. And seen her. Not imagined. Sensed.
Forcing myself down the hall was like taking my first steps in physical therapy. An exercise in will. But I had to find the explanation. The drift of curtain or shaft of moonlight that was real and tangible, just transformed by my thoughts, the natural outgrowth of my ruminations.
But there was nothing. The curtains in the dining room were drawn and still. The only illumination was from a night-light in the corner outlet.
Oh crap.
Leaving the room was much easier. I hurried to the kitchen, then out the back door and onto the covered porch, where Gigi was waiting for me in her crate, pawing at the latch impatiently. As soon as I let her out, she jumped into my arms, and I sat down hard on one of the cushioned wicker settees, my trembling legs giving out. Just like my marbles.
The black-humour barrier between me and my fears had come crashing down. This was bad. Unfunny, unvarnished, undeniably awful. What had just happened was different from my earlier imaginings. This wasn’t just overly detailed fantasy. I had truly slipped. I’d been convinced the figure in the hall was real, right up to the moment I realized it couldn’t be.
It was Central Park all over again. But I was dead sober. Tired, overwrought, totally freaking out, but very, very sober. And I had to face the question, if it wasn’t alcohol, and it wasn’t Vicodin … did that mean it was me?
Gigi licked my cheek. I had her cuddled tight to my chest, and she snuggled trustingly against my neck. At least one of us was confident in my ability to take care of us.
It was reassuring in a way that logic could never be. I couldn’t crack up, because then who would look after Gigi? Therefore, I would not go crazy. If sheer force of will could keep someone sane, then I was the one to do it. Ballerinas are made of willpower.
On the porch, the quiet didn’t seem so oppressive. I could hear the wind in the trees and, very faintly, the sound of the river. The night was warmish, but the ceiling fan stirred the air. I grabbed an old quilt from the back of the settee and wrapped it around Gigi and me as we curled up together.
I didn’t think I would fall asleep, given the turmoil in my head, and certainly not on the creaky wicker settee. But I couldn’t quite face the house and its creaks and sighs. Instead, I stroked Gigi’s silky fur and reached for the calm I felt when I dug my feet into the grass. Just like my dad had taught me.
When I opened my eyes again, the moonlight had changed with the passing of who knew how long. I’d worked my way down on the settee, neck at a painful angle, Gigi snuggled against my chest. She was shivering in her sleep, and I realized I was cold too, even with the quilt around us.
I thought – as much as I was thinking anything, because thinking meant remembering why I was there – that the chill had woken me, but then I caught a faint sound, the same mournful keen I’d heard earlier in the evening. It rose in a thin wail, and I lifted my heavy head, then winced at the crick in my neck. Gigi gave a tiny, sleepy growl, but even she was too tired to get excited over it.
The sound faded, and I pushed myself painfully upright, holding Gigi securely in one arm. More than half asleep, I stumbled into the house and down the hall. I limped up the stairs, pulling myself up by the handrail and cursing whatever quirk of ventilation had made the centre of the house so damned cold. Teeth chattering, I found my room, closed the door against the chill and fell into bed, careful not to squish Gigi.
I pulled the covers over us both, and she tucked her head under my chin, already snoring. I wasn’t far behind.
The sweet smell of lilacs was strong, and invaded my sleep as I dreamed of searching the woods for something I’d lost, something I was desperate to find.
Chapter 6
I woke to the smell of bacon frying. Or rather, Gigi did. Her wiggling nudged me awake, and I pried open an eyelid as she stuck her twitching nose out from under the covers.
‘Ugh. Don’t even think about it.’
Struggling against the tangled blankets, I managed to get upright and glance at the window, full of morning light. If someone was cooking, I had obviously missed the opportunity to sneak the dog back down the way we’d come. I would have to improvise.
Something about the daylight made yesterday’s strangeness seem small and manageable. Though maybe that was nothing more than the perspective of distance, and when it snuck up on me again, it would be huge and insurmountable.
If it snuck up again. Think positive, Sylvie.
I washed my face with the cold water in the pitcher on the washstand. It seemed odd at first, but by the time I’d splashed my face, standing on tiptoe to let the drips fall back into the basin, the motion was oddly natural. I groped blindly for the towel, and found it on the first try.
The soap in the dish jarred me out of the moment. The smell wasn’t right somehow. It took a second before I realized what I had been expecting. If the soap smelled of roses, then where was the lilac scent coming from?
I opened the cabinet, looking for shelf liners or potpourri. But Gigi was getting anxious, so I didn’t search very hard. I didn’t mind the scent, even if it was a little sweet for my taste.
Throwing on a pair of sweats and a camisole, I topped it with an army green hoodie that my mother hated but I loved. Gigi was sniffing one of the rugs, so I scooped her up and tucked her into my sweatshirt, zipping her in. The only real problem with this plan was that I had zero boobs with which to hide her. Hence my neglect to wear a bra.
Too late to worry whether I’d packed my push-up. I poked my head out of my room, and all was quiet, so I closed the door behind me and scurried down the hall.
The landing was warm, the sun streaming through the sheer curtains on the French doors, and with Gigi licking my armpit under my jacket, nothing, not even my own mental state, seemed ominous. I hadn’t forgotten about seeing someone standing at the window, though, while I’d been on the phone with John. Curious, I went down the short hall that crossed the main landing, and lifted the thin drape.
The view was spectacular. Forgetting about Gigi wiggling around inside my sweatshirt, and the possibility of getting caught, I unlatched the doors and let myself out onto the balcony.
From this vantage point, in the morning light, it was easier to see the layout of the grounds; the house and gardens were on a cleared area surrounded by uncultivated forest. The river snaked down from the northeast, wide and still in the distance. To the north another, smaller river joined the larger one before it disappeared behind the overgrowth of pine and mosscovered oaks. It reappeared close to the house, where I’d seen it last night, then vanished round a curve on its meandering path to the Gulf of Mexico.
At the railing, I had an overhead view of the back yard, where I’d met Paula after returning from my walk. The yard was enclosed along the north edge, bordered in back by a casually planted c
ottage garden. It made a cosy spot, with a table for alfresco dining on one side and a small arbour seat on the other.
The northeast side dropped down to the great lawn with a view of the inlet, and the summerhouse on a hill. To the northwest, a trellis-covered path led to a brick building with stairs running up to a second-storey landing. Last night, Paula had gestured that way when she mentioned Clara and Addie’s apartment above the garage, and I could see Clara’s domestic hand in the flowerpots and window boxes around their door.
My subliminal upstaging sense warned me I wasn’t alone. What told me it was Rhys Griffith behind me – maybe some funny-bone-type tingle – I couldn’t have said.
I turned to find him leaning against the doorjamb, looking as though he might have been watching me for a while. Apparently my radar was a little slow.
‘Is stalking something they do for fun in Cardiff?’ I asked, arching my brows.
He wore khakis and a white T-shirt, proving that some things were classics on both sides of the ocean. His dark hair had been finger combed at best. I’d seen guys try way too hard for that attractively rumpled look with much less success. I guess, by definition, ‘effortlessly handsome’ wasn’t something you could work for.
Sauntering over, hands in his pockets, he said, ‘Good morning, Vicious. And to your little dog, too.’
I might have blushed if I hadn’t been distracted by Gigi, who wiggled so hard in my jacket I thought she’d strangle one or both of us. Despite this, I made a stab at nonchalance. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in pretending I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Nice try. If you want to sneak her out, you’ll have to get up earlier.’
It’s hard to be arch when you have a puppy’s fluffy head sticking out of your shirt, but I tried. ‘Yes, well, we divas have only one seven o’clock in our day.’
‘I’m sure.’ He held out his fingers for Gigi to sniff, then scratched under her ear. His knuckles brushed my collarbone, just briefly, but the echo of his touch seemed to stay on my skin, and my pulse started tap dancing at the base of my neck.