Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 6

  It was hard not to stare at that empty chair with its plum-colored brocade and scrolled frame, and watching the maids remove the charger and unused silverware after each course made Allison’s skin crawl. No one else seemed to pay any attention. She supposed they were used to it, but it made her feel as if she were sitting opposite a ghost.

  She wished Cousin Margot would sit there, instead, so she could take a good look at her. She was younger than Allison remembered. She wore the simplest of dinner dresses, just dark green wool, with a V-neck collar and a pleated skirt that fell to the middle of her calves. She wore no jewelry at all, and she certainly didn’t have a stethoscope around her neck! Allison wondered where she kept it. Cousin Margot was no model of chic, but her hair was neatly shingled in back, and hung in straight, shining curves under her chin. Clearly, she didn’t need pomade to wrestle her hair into the style she wanted. Allison suspected she wouldn’t have bothered if she did, and probably no one could nag her, a doctor, about how to wear her hair or what dress to put on.

  The two redheaded maids began serving a soup course that tasted strongly of onions. Allison tasted it, to be polite, before she laid down her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. She felt Cousin Margot’s eyes assessing her from the side. Those eyes seemed to look right through a person. They were dark, like her older brother’s and her father’s, but they had a sort of gleam to them, as if she had one of those new X-ray things built right into her head. Allison resisted a foolish impulse to put up her hand to block Margot’s gaze.

  Ramona said brightly, “Margot, Cousin Allison was telling us last night about seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris.”

  “Did you like it?” Margot asked, forcing Allison to turn toward her. “Many do, I think.”

  “Well, it is the tallest structure in the world,” Ramona said, before Allison could answer. “That makes it interesting.”

  “And it has Otis elevators,” Uncle Dickson said. “Some French ones, too, but I’m told the American ones work much better.”

  “Trust you to know that, Father,” Margot said.

  Uncle Dickson chortled and waved his soupspoon. “American industry, daughter. It’s the best. Still, the tower is an achievement.”

  “I suppose it is,” Margot said. “But I found it rather stark, in that city full of graceful old architecture.”

  Adelaide had oohed and aahed over the Eiffel Tower. She had made Allison stand in line forever in the hot sun so the two of them could have their photograph taken in front of it. Allison thought at the time that was the reason she disliked it. Now, Cousin Margot had perfectly expressed her reaction. Allison had found the Eiffel Tower crude and somehow aggressive, with its dark lattices and clanking lifts and exaggerated point stabbing the sky. Of course she hadn’t said so. Her mother would have snapped at her that she didn’t know anything about architecture, which of course was true, or that she should respect the opinions of people who knew better. Allison often didn’t respect the opinions of people who were supposed to know better, but she had learned not to say so.

  She found herself stuck now, not wanting to offend Ramona, but intrigued, and a bit confused, to find that someone—anyone—shared her unspoken opinion. She blinked, wondering what she could say. Finally, awkwardly, she said, “I liked Notre Dame much better.”

  “Yes, so did I,” Margot said, nodding at Allison as if her thoughts mattered. As if she really wanted to hear them. She said, “I love the feeling of age in an old cathedral like that. There’s a weight to it. A sort of rooted feeling. It makes me feel connected to all the other people who have been there.”

  This was so like the way Allison had felt when she entered the shadowy, cool interior of Notre Dame that she fell silent, remembering. Her mother had been impatient, saying they had seen enough churches, but Allison could have wandered through the cathedral for hours, discovering bits of statuary, interesting niches, enjoying the way the stained glass windows colored the sunbeams that fell over the marble floors. Her mother had tugged her away when she was trying to examine the gallery stalls, which had marvelous carvings. Adelaide ordered the maids to gather their things so they could go to the hotel, and ordered Allison to move on in exactly the same tone of voice she used with Ruby and Jane. Allison had snatched her arm away from her mother, fighting an urge to simply flee.

  She couldn’t have done that, of course. She didn’t speak very good French, and she wasn’t allowed any money of her own. There was no place she could go. Simmering with resentment and frustration, she had followed Adelaide out into the courtyard like a dog on a leash. All of this flashed through her mind in a moment as she looked up into Cousin Margot’s searching gaze. “I’d like to go back,” she said, and though she was afraid it was an obscure, even a childish, thing to say, Margot nodded again.

  “I would, too. Some day when I can have a nice long vacation.”

  Ramona, bravely trying to keep the conversation going, said, “Dick and I honeymooned in Paris. Such a romantic city.” Her husband smiled at her, and she blushed becomingly. She was plumper than Allison remembered, her cheeks rounder, her bosom fuller. It didn’t seem to concern anyone, though. No one appeared to be taking note of what she ate.

  “I went to Paris after I finished my undergraduate work,” Margot said. “Paris and London. I didn’t have time for Italy, because I was due to start medical school.” She glanced at Allison, a clear signal that it was her turn to contribute.

  Allison wasn’t used to being included this way. It was hard to keep thinking of polite things to say, and Cousin Margot was so attentive, she didn’t want to make a mistake. “Italy was my favorite,” she said lamely.

  There was so much more she could have said. She could have described the fabulous Uffizi Gallery in Florence, which had captivated her. She could have mentioned going to an opera in Milan, where the music had been heavenly, but which Adelaide had ruined by saying it was too hot and the Italians were too rude. She had ridden in a gondola in Venice, while her mother ran on about what a terrible place it must be to live, with mold and damp and peeling paint everywhere. Adelaide kept a handkerchief to her nose to shut out the stink of the water. Allison and the gondolier, who fortunately didn’t speak a word of English, had exchanged rueful glances, so that Allison had to hide a laugh behind her hand. It had been one of her favorite moments of the tour.

  She could find no way to express all of that. She could hardly even organize her private thoughts about it. She had loved Italy for its music and its art and its laughing people. The food, however, had been a torment.

  Uncle Dickson saved her by saying, “Well, well. Allison, your aunt Edith also loves to travel. Don’t you, Edith?”

  Allison turned to her aunt. Edith, who hadn’t touched her cup of soup, raised her eyes to her husband. “What, dear?”

  Uncle Dickson said, speaking with careful clarity, “We were talking about travel, Edith. You always enjoyed traveling.”

  “Oh, yes,” Edith said, but she dropped her gaze immediately, not looking at Allison at all. “Oh, yes,” she said again.

  When the salad came, Allison ate most of it, feeling the pressure of Margot’s questioning gaze. She ate a bit of sea bass, and one bite of fried potatoes. The potatoes also tasted strongly of onions. She mashed them with her fork into a little pile at the side of her plate.

  The maids came in with dessert and a coffeepot. Leona, Allison could see, was ever so slightly thinner than her sister Loena. Leona had a freckle beside her left ear, too, that Loena lacked. Allison thought she would point that out to Ruby so she would stop complaining about not being able to tell them apart.

  As Loena poured coffee, Cousin Dick said, “So, Margot, how’s the clinic coming? Windows all in?”

  “Yes,” Margot said, pulling her coffee cup closer to her. “The windows are in, and the floors are almost done.” She picked up her coffee and leaned back, cradling the small china cup in long, strong-looking fingers. “Cartons arrive every day,” she said with satisfaction. �
��The autoclave is here, a full set of storage jars, and the mattresses for the exam tables. Two of the doctors at the hospital have sent me extra specula and syringes, and one of them had a drug cabinet he wasn’t using—” She broke off and gave Ramona a wry look. “Sorry, Ramona. You don’t like hearing all these details.”

  “Well, no,” Ramona said, with a light laugh. “But I know it’s a big undertaking, replacing everything.”

  “It is, in fact. So many details! Hattie’s going to make curtains for the windows, bless her. I could have hired someone, but she really wanted to do it. I worry that she’s doing too much, handling Blake’s job as well as her own.”

  Dickson said, “Let her do it, daughter, if she wants to. She’s proud of you.”

  “I know. It’s awfully kind.”

  Edith looked up abruptly, as if something Margot said had startled her. “Curtains,” she said.

  Uncle Dickson frowned, and Allison thought his lips trembled. “What, dear?” he said.

  “Curtains,” she said again, as if he should understand. “I forgot to tell Hattie.”

  Margot leaned forward and set her cup down. “Mother, what about the curtains?” Her voice usually had a decisive tone, an authoritative edge to it. Now, however, she spoke carefully to her mother, as her father had done earlier. Allison wondered if this was how she spoke to her patients.

  Edith turned her head to her daughter, but a trifle too slowly, as if she were having trouble locating the speaker. “It’s the curtains in Preston’s room. They’re dusty. They should be—” She fluttered one thin hand. The skin was so pale it almost seemed a person could see right through it to the bones beneath. Allison glanced down at her own hand, and noticed, with a twinge of unease, that her fingers were nearly as bony as Aunt Edith’s.

  Ramona said, “Mother Benedict, I’ll have Leona do it. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  Dick covered his wife’s hand with his. Dickson nodded and cleared his throat. Margot, on Allison’s left, folded her arms, and Allison had the distinct impression she was holding herself in.

  Aunt Edith gazed around the table as if she were searching for someone. Her eyes went from place to place, the empty chair, her daughter-in-law’s face, her son, her husband at the head. When they reached Margot, they focused suddenly. The pupils swelled, threatening to swallow the pale blue irises. Her pale lips parted, and as she drew breath, Allison felt Margot tense beside her.

  “I told you,” she said in an urgent whisper. “I told you not to do it. You shouldn’t have done it, Margot.” Allison’s arms prickled with gooseflesh. She realized her mouth was open, and she pressed her lips quickly together.

  “Edith,” Uncle Dickson said. “Margot didn’t do anything.”

  “She did!” Aunt Edith’s voice rose. “She spent all Mother’s money on that clinic, and then Preston . . . Preston . . .”

  Dickson shoved back his chair, the wood creaking in protest, and stood up. He strode around the table to Edith, surprising Leona, who had just come in with a tray. The maid made a small, startled sound and took a step back, the dessert plates on her tray sliding and clicking against one another. Dickson sidestepped her, reached his wife, and bent to take her elbows and pull her gently up and out of her chair. “Edith,” he said, with a crack in his gruff voice. “Edith, come with me. Let’s go into the small parlor.” She protested, something wordless, and he kept murmuring, “Come now, dear. Come with me.” He put an arm around her slender back and guided her toward the door.

  Allison watched all of this, embarrassed but fascinated. The misery emanating from Margot, at her elbow, was like a wave of cold from an open window in wintertime. Dick, from the opposite side of the table, said, “Don’t worry, Margot. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  Ramona pressed her palms together, as if in prayer, and said, “Dick, I don’t see how we can go on like this. Your mother’s really not well.”

  Cousin Margot shook her head at Leona, who was trying to serve her dessert. It was some sort of custard, with a curl of whipped cream on the top of it. It looked tantalizing, but Allison also refused it.

  Leona settled for placing dessert in front of Dick and Ramona, then backed out of the dining room, the tray in her hands. Loena peeked over her shoulder, and the two maids whispered to each other, something Allison couldn’t catch. Dick ate the custard in a few quick bites, as if it were medicine he was forcing down. Ramona poked at it with a listless spoon, and gave Allison a sad smile across the table. “I’m sorry, Cousin Allison,” she said. “Mother Benedict hasn’t recovered from Preston’s . . . that is, from losing Preston.”

  Allison found her voice at last, though her throat was dry. “It’s very sad,” she said. “Poor Aunt Edith.” In truth, she was stunned by such naked infirmity, the evidence of real illness. Her own mother’s nervous attacks appeared even less convincing in the face of the scene she had just witnessed. “What was she . . . what did she mean?”

  “Nothing. Nothing,” Dick said roughly.

  Cousin Margot made a bitter sound that might have been a laugh. “Cousin Allison is going to be in the house for some time, Dick. She might as well know.”

  The dining room door opened once more, and Hattie’s round, perspiring face appeared. “Miss Margot, a letter came for you.” She pulled it out of her apron pocket, a slender white envelope with blue script on it, and handed it over. “It’s from California. I thought you’d want to have it right away.”

  “I do, Hattie. Thanks.” Margot took the letter and held it without opening it.

  Hattie, scrubbing her hands on the hem of her apron, scanned the table and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Now, I made that nice butterscotch custard, and hardly nobody ate any of it!”

  Dick said stoutly, “It was delicious, Hattie.”

  Ramona said, “Mrs. Edith was upset. It spoiled our appetites. I’m sorry.”

  “Now, don’t you never mind that, Mrs. Ramona.” Hattie bustled around the table to pick up the two dessert plates. “Don’t you never mind. You all just enjoy your coffee, and I’ll go see if Mrs. Edith and Mr. Dickson are doing all right. Maybe some tea for Mrs. Edith . . .” Her last words faded away as she hurried out of the dining room and the door swung closed behind her.

  Margot said, “I hope Mother isn’t still taking laudanum. There are serious problems with long-term use. I’ll speak to Dr. Creedy.”

  “He was here yesterday,” Ramona said.

  “Good.” Margot pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ll call him tomorrow. Now, will you excuse me, everyone? Cousin Allison?”

  Ramona said, “But we’re going to listen to a concert on the wireless, from New York. Don’t you want to—”

  Margot said, in a weary voice, “Thank you, Ramona. I think it’s best all around if I just go to bed.” She said good night to everyone and walked out of the dining room. Her shoulders were hunched now, and her steps were shorter and slower. She carried the letter, seemingly forgotten, in her hand.

  When she had gone, Dick growled, “This is unfair. None of it was Margot’s fault.”

  “But what can we do?” Ramona breathed. Allison watched the two of them, at a loss.

  “Not a damned thing.” Dick threw his napkin down, rose from the table, and held Ramona’s chair as she stood up. “No, if Father won’t take steps, there’s not a damned thing we can do.”

  Allison wondered what he meant by take steps, but she was sure it wasn’t proper to ask. Whatever was going on, it was obviously making Margot unhappy. As she followed the family out of the dining room and down the hall to the small parlor, she felt more confused than ever. This woman she had designated as her enemy had big problems of her own. It was hard not to feel sympathy for her.

  Margot gathered up her umbrella, dry now, and trudged across the lawn to the garage. The rain had stopped, but the cloud layer remained, thick and forbidding. Only the light she had left on at the foot of the stairs beckoned to her through the darkness.

  She di
dn’t remember the letter from Frank until she reached for the doorknob and found the envelope still in her hand. She tucked it into the pocket of her dress, opened the door, and dropped the umbrella into the pottery stand inside. She would wait, she thought. She would get ready for bed, make a cup of tea, and settle down at the old, scarred table to read it. She would indulge herself in imagining Frank sitting opposite her, hearing his voice in the written words. If she closed her eyes, she could see the streaks of silver gleaming in his dark hair, be enchanted anew at the vivid blue of his eyes.

  She found a fresh nightdress folded on the foot of her bed, and a wave of affection for Hattie swept over her. Hattie didn’t like her living over the garage any more than Blake would if he knew. Margot, for her part, had forbidden Hattie a dozen times to climb these narrow stairs to “do” for her, but she might as well have saved her breath. There was daily evidence of Hattie’s presence—a fresh bar of soap, a change of sheets, soiled laundry disappearing and reappearing clean, pressed, and folded. A bad cook but a good woman, the Benedicts said of Hattie. The truth of it brought a smile to Margot’s lips even now, lonely and disheartened though she felt.

  She lingered over washing her face, turning back her bed, putting on her nightdress, brewing her tea. The letter, with her name in Frank’s cramped handwriting, lay in the center of the table. While it was still unopened, she didn’t have to face what it said. It wasn’t her nature to leave it there all night, of course. She was accustomed to facing her challenges squarely. The trouble with this particular challenge was that there seemed to be no answer. No resolution. There was no response she could think of that could bridge the distance between herself and Frank.

  She sat down at the table, her teacup at her elbow, and drew the envelope toward her. Just looking at his handwriting reminded her of the comforting strength of his good right arm and the saving efficiency of his left arm. That left arm, and that mechanical hand with its cleverly jointed fingers, were a testament to how far the two of them had come.