The Love Talker Part 4

Laurie didn't really want any brandy, but Uncle Ned looked so pleased that she joined him in a swig. She suspected her aunt probably knew about the flask; she knew about everything that went on. But if Uncle Ned liked to think he was putting one over on his strict sister, more power to him. Forbidden fruit always tasted sweeter.

They started for home. The dog ran rings around them, crashed off into the woods and reappeared, her tongue lolling, as if playing hide and seek.

"She doesn't bark much, does she?" Laurie said.

"Not a barkin' dog," Uncle Ned said calmly.

Laurie glanced at him. His craggy profile was reddened by the sunset and the cold air. He was wearing a bright scarlet cap, with an absurd pom-pom on top; his s.h.a.ggy brows, lined cheeks, and faint, enigmatic smile made him look like a blown-up version of a gnome or a brownie-some creature totally attuned to its natural environment. Once she would have thought of him as a friendly giant, but now his shoulder was almost on a level with hers.

Moved by a sudden rush of affection, she wanted to take his arm, but she knew better. Uncle Ned was as shy of physical contact as the animals he loved. But he must have caught something of her emotion; he turned his head to smile at her, then looked away. They went on in amicable silence, side by side.

CHAPTER 4.

Lizzie, in the throes of one of her more complex menus, gave Laurie an abstracted greeting and refused her offer of help. Like other creative artists, she preferred to work alone. Shedding boots and coat, Laurie went on stocking feet along the hall and into the parlor.

It was the most formal and, in some ways, the most beautiful room of all. The woodwork and the carved paneling around the mantel were painted a soft blue-green. Curved arches framed the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. The heavy satin draperies were of a deeper, richer turquoise, and the Aubusson rug repeated this color, complemented by floral designs in navy, rose, and buff. There was no sound in the high-ceilinged room except for the crackle of the fire on the hearth, and at, first Laurie thought she was alone. Then she saw that one of the long, high-backed sofas in front of the fireplace had an occupant. Stretched out at full length, his shoes uncouthly displayed against the soft brown leather, Doug slept.

Laurie sat down on the opposite sofa and regarded her brother fixedly. After a moment she realized that her stare was returned. One of Doug's eyes was open.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't do it," he said lazily.

"I'd have dropped something on your stomach if I could have found an object hard enough," Laurie confessed.

Doug chuckled. "Remember the time Aunt Ida sent you to wake me, and you threw her cat at me?"

"Mmmm. It's one of my most satisfying childhood memories."

"I had the scars for years." Doug rubbed his flat stomach thoughtfully.

"So did I, emotionally. Ida gave me a lecture on cruelty to dumb animals."

"Funny, how their pets reflect their personalities. Ida has always favored Siamese, hasn't she?"

"I'm not so sure. About the animals reflecting their personalities, I mean." Laurie stretched her legs and wriggled her toes, basking in the warmth of the fire. "Ned's dogs are big sporting types, but they are always undisciplined and friendly. Siamese cats look aristocratic and aloof, like Ida, but actually they are strident and hammy. Lizzie's Persians are much more sn.o.bbish-which she certainly is not."

"All right, but you have to admit her latest is a weirdo. Any cat named Angel Baby has two strikes against it, but this is one spooky feline. It strolled in here a while ago, purring like crazy, and curled up on my stomach, nice as you please. When I reached down to stroke it, it let out a shriek, stuck all its claws in my navel, and took off."

"Angel Baby is weird all right," Laurie agreed. "Maybe it saw the fairies too. .. . Have you talked to Ida?"

"Haven't had a chance."

"You haven't tried hard, have you?"

"Not very. d.a.m.n it, I'm relaxing. I've had a hard winter."

"Sure you have."

"Well, how about you? Get any further with your investigation, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Well . .."

"Not willing to admit we're on a wild-goose chase? Ah, well." Doug sighed, folding his arms under his head. "Who cares? I'm glad I came, anyway. We ought to check in with the old folks now and then."

Laurie was facing the door, so she saw her aunt before Doug did. Stately in garnet velvet, Ida was carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Laurie jumped up to take it from her.

"Thank you, my dear. Where is Douglas?"

"Resting," Laurie said. Doug's face appeared over the back of the sofa.

"Hi," he said. "Sorry, Aunt, I didn't see you."

"That's quite all right." A gleam of affection warmed the stern contours of Ida's face. "You need your rest, working as hard as you do." Unseen by her aunt, Laurie made a rude face at her brother, who widened his eyes and beamed seraphically. Ida turned, and Laurie hastily straightened her countenance. "We are changing for dinner, Laura. There is plenty of time; your uncle is not here yet."

"Plenty of time" meant just the reverse, as Laurie knew.

"I'll hurry," she said and went upstairs at a trot. Admittedly she needed a shower and a change of clothing after her trek through the woods, but she had forgotten that the aunts sometimes went formal for dinner. When one dined solo on tuna-fish salad and crackers, or a deux on beer and pizza, one did not don trailing skirts and the family jewels.

Speaking of jewels . . . Having showered and put on the dinner dress she had had the foresight to pack, she reached for the small leather case that held her own jewelry. The only decent pieces she possessed were the ones her aunts and uncle had given her. A pearl ring on her sixteenth birthday- pearls are suitable for young girls-a watch when she graduated from high school, bits of turquoise and coral at intervals.. . . What had Ida been wearing? Something rather opulent in a subdued way. Garnets? Ida did not deck herself gaudily as her sister did. Everything she wore was in impeccable taste, but it was not cheap.

When Laurie returned to the parlor her mind was still on the subject of jewelry, so she noticed, as she seldom did, the details of what her aunt was wearing. The gleaming burgundy velvet matched the sullen glow of-yes, it was garnets, a collar of intricately inlaid stones with a matching brooch and twin bracelets. Garnets weren't particularly valuable, but these looked old. Maybe the Mortons did have family jewels. Lizzie had never flaunted anything like that; she preferred her gaudy, glittering costume jewelry.

Ida indulged in a gla.s.s of wine now and then, for the sake of conviviality. She was drinking port; the deep ruby color of the wine matched the highlights of her dress. As she sat in the firelight glow, her iron-gray hair set in the stiff marcel waves she had always favored, she was the picture of a handsome, dignified old lady, and her usually stern face was softer than usual as she listened to Doug's chatter. She looked up when Laurie came in and smiled approval.

"Very nice, my dear. Sit down. Douglas will fetch you some sherry."

Like pearls, sherry was considered suitable for young girls. Laurie hated it. She noticed that Doug held a tall gla.s.s filled with some liquid that was obviously not wine.

"Thank you, Aunt," she said meekly.

Lean and casual in slacks and a sweater, Doug went to the mahogany sideboard where gla.s.ses and decanters were set out. Doug was not expected to dress for dinner. Admittedly he would have looked silly in a tuxedo while Uncle Ned, adamantly rural, appeared in his usual overalls. But, Laurie told herself, it was all part and parcel of the tired old mystique of male supremacy. Doug didn't have to get dressed up; Doug could drink Scotch if he preferred it to sherry.

Ah, well, Laurie thought resignedly, taking the gla.s.s he offered her, love requires these little sacrifices. She took a sip of the pale amber liquid and gulped, thankful that Doug stood between her and her aunt. The liquid was the right shade, but it was not sherry. His face preternaturally solemn, Doug winked at her and turned away.

"I hope the sherry is not too dry, Laura," her aunt said benignly.

"It's very good." Laurie took another sip. "I feel as if I ought to be helping Aunt Lizzie, though."

"Elizabeth, as you know, prefers to be alone when she is cooking. And," Ida added, magnificently ignoring the contradiction, "Jefferson is helping her."

"Jefferson cooks, too?" Doug asked.

"He is very accomplished. And he will be joining us for dinner. I hope you do not mind. I a.s.sure you, he is a presentable young man."

Laurie knew her aunt's anxiety on this score was genuine. In Ida's girlhood, when the house was staffed with bowing servants, none of them would have been allowed to sit down with the family.

"My dear aunt," she said with a smile, "if it doesn't bother you, it certainly isn't going to bother us. After all, I worked as a waitress last summer."

A spasm of pain crossed Ida's face.

"I know that dear. If I had been told in advance of your intention I would have taken steps to see that no such indignity was necessary. The very idea of a Morton being subjected to the rude jokes and pecuniary insults of lower-cla.s.s persons-"

"They weren't all lower cla.s.s," Laurie protested.

"And it was honest work. I thought Great-Grandfather Angus believed in the enn.o.bling effect of hard work."

Doug crossed the room to take Laurie's empty gla.s.s and administer a gentle kick in the shins. Don't argue with her, the kick said.

"I am not criticizing your motives," her aunt said. "Only your judgment. You are too young to realize that some persons-that certain men may a.s.sume- er-"

"I won't do it again," Laurie said.

"I am relieved to hear you say so."

Uncle Ned's entrance ended the lecture. Booted and overalled, his gray hair standing out around his face, he was as out of place in the stately room as a cow in a boudoir. Pausing only to smile at Laurie and nod at his sister, he made straight for the sideboard and poured himself his customary libation- four fingers of Scotch. He drank it without stopping, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down; then he drew a long breath of satisfaction and put the empty gla.s.s on the tray. He had done this every evening of his life, as long as Laurie could remember.

"When do we eat?" he inquired, wiping his mouth on a huge red bandanna handkerchief.

Crudities which would have produced a freezing criticism if someone else had committed them failed to rouse Ida when her brother was the culprit. Probably, Laurie thought with an inner chuckle, she had long since given up hope of reforming him.

"You know Elizabeth always takes a gla.s.s of sherry before we dine," she replied. "She should be joining us shortly."

Ned nodded. Hands in his pockets, feet wide apart, he took up a stance in front of the fireplace and looked around the room.

"Where's d.u.c.h.ess?"

"Shut in the porch. I will not have that uncouth animal in here knocking over gla.s.ses with her tail and nibbling at the food."

"What food?" Ned looked mutinous. "Got any of those little crackers? I'm hungry."

Silently Ida indicated the table. Ned crossed the room in three clumping strides, swept up a handful of canapes, and crammed them into his mouth.

"Good," he mumbled. "Can't see why d.u.c.h.ess has to be excluded. She wouldn't touch anything."

Ida replied acrimoniously. Laurie leaned back and let her thoughts wander. She knew the argument would go on, unresolved and unresolvable, until someone interrupted it. On the sofa opposite, Doug was smiling, his eyes half closed. Time had turned back; it was as if they were ten years in the past, hearing the same voices saying the same things, surrounded by the familiar objects.

But things weren't the same. No doubt, Laurie thought, it was her perceptions rather than the facts themselves that had altered. She had changed a great deal in the two years that had elapsed since her last visit. Her fondness for and grat.i.tude toward the old people had not lessened in the slightest, but she was aware of practical points she had never considered before.

Ida and Ned were still arguing about d.u.c.h.ess when Lizzie came in. Her costume that night was the most bizarre she had worn yet, which was saying a good deal-a solid glitter of gold cloth trimmed with huge fake emeralds and rubies. The crimson and green sparks flared along the front of her flowing robes and weighted down the long sleeves.

But on this occasion Lizzie's costume failed to hold her niece's attention. Lizzie was not alone. Following her at a respectful distance was the handsomest man Laurie had seen for years. (She had never, even at the height of her infatuation, considered Bob good-looking.) He was as dark as Bob was fair. His high cheekbones and thin, expressive mouth, his olive complexion, suggested Spanish or Italian blood. His proportions were so perfect that he looked taller than he actually was, and the casual, open-necked blue cotton shirt set off his broad shoulders and strong throat. His black hair was cut neatly but inexpertly, so that waving locks fell casually across his high forehead. More remarkable even than his physical handsomeness was the sheer animal vitality that set his black eyes snapping; a wave of almost palpable electricity filled the room when he entered it.

". . . will certainly be overdone if we don't eat soon," Lizzie was saying.

"You've plenty of time for a little nip, ma'am," the beautiful man told her. "Sit down and let us bask in the light of your gorgeousness."

Lizzie giggled and obeyed.

"You forget yourself, Elizabeth," Ida said. "You have not performed introductions."

"No need." Doug rose to his feet. Laurie noticed that he was holding himself erect, making the most of his height. Childish, she thought; he was half a head taller than the newcomer, but what did mere inches matter?

"You're Jefferson, of course," Doug went on. "I'm Douglas Wright. My sister, Miss . . . Carlton."

Laurie was probably the only one who noticed the stammer before her last name. No wonder Doug had trouble with it; Anna's habit of changing husbands had made it difficult for her children to remember what name they should answer to in any given year.

Doug's attempt at a young-lord-of-the-manor condescension was a failure. Jefferson's dark eyes moved in Laurie's direction and went straight back to Doug.

"Hi, Doug," he said. His voice was low and rich- black velvet, Laurie thought idiotically-but with an underlying roughness.

Without further courtesies Jefferson moved with the grace of a cat toward the decanters and poured Lizzie's wine. He handed it to her with a bow and a twisted smile.

"Here you are, luv. Drink up."

"Thank you." Lizzie giggled.

Jefferson turned to Uncle Ned. "I checked out that sound in the car you were complaining about, sir. Just a loose rod. It's okay now."

His manner had changed, subtly but perceptibly; it was bluff, man-to-man talk, with a tinge of respect that held no shadow of subservience.

"Good." Ned nodded amiably. "I quit driving a few years back," he explained to Laurie. "Perfectly capable still, you understand; eyes are as good as ever. But you never can tell. Shouldn't take chances. Might hurt something."

Laurie knew he was talking about animals rather than people; once, when a squirrel had dashed out under the wheels, he had been unable to avoid it and had mourned for days.

"So Jefferson acts as your chauffeur?" she asked.

"Jefferson does everything," Lizzie said fondly.

"Except cook," Jefferson said. "But I'm learning- from the best." He smiled at her. Lizzie simpered.

"Oh, one of the first lessons is not to let things get over-cooked. Come along, Jeff. We'll serve."

"I'll serve, you just sit." Jefferson took her hand and heaved her to her feet. He did it nicely, with no suggestion of effort, which was no small trick, considering Lizzie's size. "I know how to do it with style. You taught me, didn't you?"

As the youngest woman present, by quite a few years, Laurie did not rate an escort. She had to pull out her own chair, while Uncle Ned performed that service for Ida and Doug a.s.sisted the younger aunt. Jefferson had vanished into the kitchen. As soon as they were seated the door swung open and he appeared, effortlessly balancing a big tray. He served soup. Placing Laurie's bowl before her, he gave her a quick sidelong look. He did not speak, or smile.

Laurie ate her soup. However, she never had the slightest recollection of how it tasted.

Doug insisted on helping clear away the first course, and after that things were more relaxed. He and Jefferson wove a complex pattern through the swinging doors, letting out warning shouts as they approached the barriers, and turning the remainder of the meal into a game. Laurie supposed that the food was excellent, as Lizzie's cooking always was, but her taste buds appeared to be paralyzed.

After that first penetrating, smileless stare Jefferson did not look at her. He served the food, he ate, he complimented the aunts and teased Lizzie, he exchanged comments with Uncle Ned, without seeming effort. He even broke through Doug's wary hostility with a compliment about Doug's car, and they talked about engines and tachometers and other technicalities.

Laurie ate tasteless food and speculated. Whom did he remind her of? But it wasn't difficult to trace his fictional antecedents-he resembled all the dark, brooding heroes she had ever read about. Heathcliffe, Rochester, Max . . . whatever his name was, the hero of Rebecca.