|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
Chapter 2
By
Elaine Kehoe
In all of her years of service at Collinwood, only twice in her memory had Sarah Johnson ever found herself caught off guard by the appearance of a visitor to the great house. The first time had been the night Barnabas Collins had arrived from England. The second time was tonight.
When she answered the knock on the door and found herself facing a tall, strikingly handsome man with clear, penetrating eyes, she felt something like an electric shock run through her; when he smiled, directly and dazzlingly, at her, she nearly lost her own name.
“Good evening, madam,” he said in a voice as smooth as the night sky. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Stoddard?”
“What--who, me? Oh, no,” she stammered, raising a hand to her throat. “I’m--the housekeeper. Mrs. Johnson,” she added--unnecessarily, she realized too late, and flushed slightly.
His smile didn’t fade, and his eyes remained steadily fixed to hers as though with genuine interest. “I apologize for my error, Mrs. Johnson, and I am very pleased to meet you.” He took her hand for a moment, for all the world as though he were greeting a great lady. “Would Mrs. Stoddard be at home tonight?”
She put her professional manner on again as best she could. “Yes, sir, she is. May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. My name is Cyprian St. Clair. I was referred here by the innkeeper in Collinsport--he told me she might have a rental property available.”
“Please, do come in, Mr. St. Clair. I’ll--tell Mrs. Stoddard you’re here.” Truthfully she was glad to be able to break away from him. You’re much too old for this kind of thing, she berated herself harshly. Imagine acting like a silly teenager in front of a guest. Nevertheless, she remained very much aware of his presence as she headed--just a little self-consciously--for the drawing room.The visitor watched her go, a small smile turning on his lips. Alone in the great hall, he took a few slow, exploring steps across the stone floor. His eyes wandered around the huge room, writer’s eyes practiced at observing everything. No detail of the ornate architecture and decor escaped his notice: the massive stairway and balcony crowned by huge stained-glass windows. The large carved-wood doors and newels on the staircase. The elegant furniture and artwork, the elaborate chandelier.
In spite of himself, he felt awed. This was the American aristocracy, which they prided themselves on not having. The only difference between them and the landed gentry of England, he mused, was that they believed that displaying their wealth was a testament to initiative and industry, not to mere privilege. But was the distance between the slums of Dublin and the townhouses of Mayfair really that much greater than that between himself--his old self-- and the owners of this estate?
He caught sight of the portrait hanging by the door. Now there, he thought, was the face and bearing of a true patrician. The haughty pose, the jewelry, that unusual cane...but there was something else that arrested him--something in the man’s eyes. A depth of sadness, a haunted quality, that bespoke something other than a life of luxury. It was something that reached out to him in an almost visceral way, as if an invisible and indefinable bond existed between them.... For a moment he lost track of his thoughts.
The sound of footsteps behind him recalled him to the moment. He turned to see an elegant, stylishly dressed woman approaching him. She smiled warmly and extended her hand.
“Mr. St. Clair? I’m Elizabeth Stoddard. Welcome to Collinwood.”
He was a bit surprised by her gracious greeting; he had expected his unanticipated visit to be met with some irritation, even suspicion. He took her hand and returned her smile, as charmingly as he could. “Mrs. Stoddard, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for calling at night, but I’m afraid my days are quite tied up. I hope you won’t mind discussing business at this hour--I’ll try to be brief.”
“Not at all, Mr. St. Clair. We were just about to have some tea. Please come in and join us.”
“Thank you...very much. I’d be happy to. I was told that the hospitality of the Collins family was legendary, and now I understand why.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. That’s a lovely compliment.” She led him through the great doors into the drawing room, where a stern-looking middle-aged man rose from a chair.
“Roger, this is Mr. St. Clair. My brother, Roger Collins.”
“Mr. Collins.” He grasped Roger’s hand firmly and noticed that the look that man gave him seemed slightly reserved. Perhaps wary
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. St. Clair. Please do sit down,” Roger invited in a voice more hearty than his appearance would have suggested. Apparently Roger Collins’ reticence was his natural manner. He relaxed and sat down opposite them.
Mrs. Johnson had miraculously appeared with a pot of tea and three cups and slipped seamlessly away--but not before he caught her darting sidelong glance and tossed her a quick smile. Not noticing, Elizabeth Stoddard poured the first cup and handed it to him.
He accepted it gladly. “Thank you. Now I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary, so I’ll explain why I’m bothering you tonight.” He took a sip and began. “I am a writer--a novelist. I’ve only just arrived here from England to do some research for my next book. My publisher wants to--as they say--strengthen the American market and thought it might be wise to set a novel here. She thought New England, with its heritage of legend and folklore, would be the perfect place. So I’m looking for somewhere to stay for an indeterminate time while I get to know the place--and the people. The innkeeper suggested I speak to you; he seemed to think you might have an available property.”
“Yes, actually we do have several,” Elizabeth replied. “You can have your choice; I’m sure one of them will suit you, whatever ambience you’re looking for.”
“Privacy would suit me very well--perhaps even a degree of isolation. Not that I’m unsociable, but I do prefer an undisturbed atmosphere when I’m working.”
“Of course. In that case, you might like the beach house. Oh, it isn’t really what it sounds like--the ‘beach’ is actually a very rocky stretch of shoreline, not a place likely to draw swimmers or tourists. That part of the ocean is a bit too treacherous for boaters, too, so I’m sure you wouldn’t be disturbed there.”
“It sounds ideal, Mrs. Stoddard. I grew up near the coast, and I’ve always found the sea romantic, especially when it’s at its most savage.”
“What made you settle on Collinsport?” Roger asked.
“Sheer luck, Mr. Collins. I wanted to be in a place where one could still feel the ancient mythical power of nature--the majesty of the sea, the mystery and peace of the deep woods--a place where the life of the town fit into the rhythm of time and the seasons, where the people could absorb the wild into their souls without taming it or fighting it but...harmonize with it, make it part of their own warmth. When I saw Collinsport I felt I’d found such a place.”
Elizabeth had been watching him raptly. Now she gave a small laugh. “Well, you certainly are a poet, Mr. St. Clair. I had never thought of our town in such grand terms. I hope you won’t find it disappointing.”
Roger cleared his throat. “Exactly what kind of books do you write?”
“My publisher calls them fantasy-horror, or horror-fantasy, depending on which side of the hyphen is most popular at the moment. At the risk of sounding too self-aggrandizing, I prefer to think of them in Poe’s terms, as ‘tales of mystery and imagination’. At least I hope they do stir the imagination.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m afraid I don’t read much--genre fiction myself. I’m sorry that I’m not familiar with them.”
“They’re wonderful.”
He looked up curiously at the sound of a new voice. A pretty auburn-haired young woman stood in the open door, clutching a book in her arms. A boy of about fourteen stood rather shyly just behind her.
“Oh, Maggie,” Roger said, rising. “Come in.”
He looked at her with the detached appreciation he might give a butterfly. Very pretty, but rather too young and fragile for his taste. The sweet-young-thing type had never really appealed to him. Their innocent naivete jarred against his world-weariness and only annoyed--and bored--him in the long run. He was just as glad that she wasn’t the one.
“I’m sorry to intrude, Roger,” she said with barely muted excitement, “but when Mrs. Johnson told me Mr. St. Clair was here, I couldn’t believe it. I just had to come meet him.” Her awed expression was fixed on Cyprian.
“Yes, of course. Maggie Evans, Mr. Cyprian St. Clair. Maggie is our governess. And this is my son, David.” He waved a hand toward the young man almost as an afterthought.
He took Maggie’s hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Evans. And you too, David.”
“Oh, it’s a thrill to meet you, Mr. St. Clair. I’m a huge fan of yours--I’ve read all your books. I just started the new one, in fact.” She held out The Hollow People. “I love it already. David’s read several of them, too.” She glanced at the boy, then at his father, whose face registered a slightly disapproving look.
“Yeah. They’re really neat,” the young man contributed, ignoring his father’s frown.
He smiled. “Thank you, David. That’s one of the best reviews I’ve had. And thank you, too, Miss Evans. It always makes me happy to know when people enjoy my work. Would you like me to sign that book for you?”
“Oh, would you? I’d love it.”
He took the book from her; almost by instinct it opened to the title page. He tossed another appraising glance at her and wrote quickly: “To Maggie. Lovely as the sunrise. Affectionately, Cyprian St. Clair.”
Maggie read it with a look of wonder. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Thank you so much.” She passed the open book to David. “Cool,” he said. Appearing a bit more emboldened, he sat on the arm of the loveseat, leafing through the book.
“I never met a writer before,” David said, looking up again with interest. “I--kind of like to write, too.”
“Do you? And is that what you want to do when you grow up?”
The boy shrugged, apparently conscious of his father’s eyes on him. “I don’t know. Maybe. I think so,” he finished, a bit shyly.
“Well, I’ll tell you what, David. I’m going to be around town for a while, and if you wouldn’t mind showing me some of your stories, I’d like very much to read them.”
David’s face lit up despite his self-consciousness. “Really? Oh, I don’t know--they’re not very good.”
“Don’t ever think that about your writing. You have to believe in it. If it’s truly yours, from your heart and soul, then it will be good.”
“David.” Roger’s voice was gruff. “I think you’ve bothered Mr. St. Clair enough.”
“Not at all, Mr. Collins. Writers love to talk with other writers. It helps us keep our perspective.” He gave David a wink and an encouraging smile.
The young man beamed back, obviously flattered; then, as if remembering that he was a teenager now, he gathered all the sophistication he could muster and stood up. “Well, I’d better go--I have to finish studying. Thanks, Mr. St. Clair. It was great to meet you.” He held out his hand and Cyprian shook it, smiling. “I hope to see you again soon, David. Pick out some stories for me to read--the ones you think are your best work. All right?”
David said goodnight to his father and Maggie and kissed his aunt. He caught Cyprian’s eye again with a quick appreciative look, one that spoke of shared confidence; it was a look that lingered in his mind after David left the room. The boy had been so pleased to be treated as an equal; it gave him an intense feeling of gratification. In fact, he realized, he was suddenly feeling intensely about everything: these people and the warmth with which they had welcomed him, the trusting acceptance and attention they gave him, the beauty and elegance of this house that seemed to whisper its knowledge of past lives and eras.... The feelings were so new that he nearly felt intoxicated with the sense of power and expansiveness that was spreading through him. He suddenly felt capable of anything.
He turned to Roger Collins, who still looked a bit sour, and smiled directly at him. “David is a fine young man, Mr. Collins. You must be very proud of him.”
Roger appeared to be taken aback. “Why--well, yes, of course I am. Thank you,” he added a bit gruffly, but his face softened. “It’s just that...well, I don’t like to see him get carried away with--unrealistic dreams. I mean no offense to you, Mr. St. Clair, but I would prefer that he go into a more--stable profession.”
“Like the cannery, Roger?” Elizabeth said softly. She turned to Cyprian. “Roger thinks the family business should be David’s passion, as it is his. But David has to find his own way.”
“Oh, Liz, you know I want David to do whatever makes him happy. But I fail to see how wasting time on such impractical activities can possibly do him any good.”
Wasting time.... An intransigent memory burrowed up into his consciousness speaking with a stubborn, contemptuous voice. What kind of a man wastes time on such worthless nonsense...completely useless...never going to feed or clothe or be any good to anybody.... A spearpoint of long-buried anger surfaced, piercing him; he fought it down. This was not the same. “I do understand your concern, Mr. Collins,” he said, keeping his voice smooth. “But on the other hand, if we don’t nurture imagination and creativity--if we don’t value the artist as much as we do the man of commerce--how can we ever hope to make life worth living--or to make a world worth living in?”
Roger seemed startled by the question. But before he could reply, they heard the sound of the drawing rooms doors open again, and a voice--a woman’s, deep and rich, a sound like dusk easing away the harshness of day....
“Roger, Elizabeth, excuse me for interrupting. I just saw David--he told me we have a visitor...”
Elizabeth Stoddard stood up. “Oh, Julia. I’m so glad you’re home in time. Come in.”
In unplanned synchrony he rose as well. From across the room he moved half a step toward destiny, toward that voice, those deep unimaginable eyes that fixed on him with the bright spark of an anticipant mind. He felt galvanized.
Elizabeth had taken the other woman’s arm and was leading her toward him. “Julia, I’d like you to meet Cyprian St. Clair. He’s going to be staying in Collinsport for a while. Mr. St. Clair, this is our dear friend, Dr. Julia Hoffman.”