Dark Angel (Casteel Series #2) Read online

  "There are people who will pay hundreds of dollars for a toy chicken?" I asked, my voice full of awed amazement.

  "There are people who will pay thousands to possess what no one else has. So all Tatterton collectibles are one of a kind, and that sort of detailed work is very costly."

  It scared, awed, and impressed me to know there were people in the world who had so much money to waste. What difference did it make if you owned the only swan made of ivory with ruby eyes, or the only pair of chickens carved of some semiprecious stone? A thousand starving kids in the Willies could be fed for a year on what one rich potentate paid for his one-of-a-kind chess set!

  How did I talk to a man whose family had emi-grated from Europe, bringing with them their skills, and right away had begun to increase their fortune tenfold? I was lost in such territory, so I turned to something more familiar.

  I was captivated with the idea of Jillian painting. "Did she do these herself?" I asked with awe, very impressed.

  "She made the original sketches, then turned them over to several young artists to complete.

  Though I have to admit she came every day to check on how they were developing, and once or twice I'd come in to see her with a paintbrush in her hand." His soft voice turned dreamy. "Her hair was long and fell halfway down her back then. She seemed a child woman one minute, a worldly one the next. She had her own kind of beauty that was very rare, and of course she knew it. Jillian knows what beauty can do, and cannot do, and at twenty I was not very good about hiding my feelings."

  "Oh. How old was she then?" I asked innocently enough.

  His laugh came short and hard, decidedly brittle. "She told me right from the beginning she was too old for me, but that only intrigued me more I liked older women. They seemed to have more to offer than silly girls my own age, so when she said she was thirty, though I was a bit surprised, still I wanted to see her again and again. We fell in love, though she was married and had one child, your mother. But none of that prevented her from wanting to do all the fun things her husband never had time for."

  What a coincidence that Tony could be ten years younger than Jillian, just as Cal was ten years younger than his wife, Kitty Dennison.

  "Imagine my surprise when one day I found out, after I had been married to her for six months, that my bride was forty and not thirty."

  He had married a woman twenty years older?

  "Who told you? Did she?"

  "Jill, dear girl, seldom refers to anyone's age. It was your mother Leigh who yelled that information in my face."

  It upset me to think my mother would betray her own mother in such an important way. "Didn't my mother like her own mother?"

  He patted my hand reassuringly, smiled

  broadly, and then strode off in another direction, beckoning for me to follow. "Of course Leigh loved Jillian. She was unhappy about her father. . . and she hated me for taking her mother away from him.

  However, like most young people, she soon adjusted to this house, and to me, and she and Troy became very good friends."

  I was listening with half a mind, part of me gawking at the luxuries in this marvelous house; I soon found out it had nine rooms downstairs, and two baths. Servants quarters were beyond the kitchen, which formed its own wing. The library was dark and baronial, with thousands of leather-bound books.

  Then there was Tony's at-home office, which he displayed to me only briefly.

  "I'm afraid I'm rather a tyrant about my office. I don't like anyone in there unless lam present to invite them in. I don't even like for the servants to dust when I am not there to supervise. You see, most housemaids consider my organized clutter messy, and right away they want to tidy my papers, return my open books to the shelves, and the first thing I know I can't find anything. A horrendous amount of time can be wasted looking for what you want."

  Not for a minute could I picture this kind-looking man as a tyrant. Pa was the tyrant! Pa with his bellowing voice, his heavy fists, his quick temper, though still, when I thought of him now, tears came unbidden to sting my eyes. Once I had needed his love so much, and he'd given none at all to me, only a little to Tom and Fanny. And if he'd ever held Keith or Our Jane I had not seen him . . .

  "You are a baffling girl, Heaven. One second you look radiant with happiness, and the next all the happiness has fled and you have tears in your eyes.

  Are you thinking of your mother? You must accept that she's gone and take comfort in knowing that she had a happy life. Not all of us can say that."

  But such a little of it . . though I didn't express my thoughts. I had to tread warily until I'd gained a friend in this house, and as I looked at Tony, I suspected he'd be the one whom I'd see more than Jillian. At that moment I knew I was going to ask for his help, the moment I knew he liked me enough to give . . .

  "You look tired. Come, let's settle you in, so you can relax and rest up a bit." And without further ado, we retraced our steps and soon were on the second floor. Dramatically he threw open two wide, double doors. "When I married Jillian I had two rooms redone for Leigh, who was twelve then. I wanted to flatter her, so I gave her feminine rooms that weren't girlish. I hope you enjoy them . . ."

  His head was turned in a way that kept me from reading his eyes.

  The sunlight through the pale ivory sheers was misted and frail and gave the sitting room an unused, unreal quality. In comparison to the rooms I'd seen below, this one was small; still, it was twice as large as our entire cabin had been. The walls were covered in some delicate ivory silk fabric, woven through subtly with faint oriental designs of green, violet, and blue, and the two small sofas were covered with the same fabric, the accent pillows soft blue to match the Chinese rug on the floor. I tried to picture myself at ease in this room, cuddled down before that little fireplace, and failed completely. Rough clothes would snag fabric so fine. I'd have to be so particular not to fingerprint the walls, the sofa, the many lampshades.

  Then I half laughed. Here I wouldn't be living in the hills and working in the garden and scrubbing the floor, as I had at the cabin and at Kitty and Cal Dennison's house in Candlewick.

  "Come, see your bedroom," called Tony, moving on ahead of me. "I have to hurry and dress for that party Jillian doesn't want to miss. You have to forgive her, Heaven. She did make the plans before she knew you were coming, and the woman throwing the party is her best friend and worst enemy." He chucked me under the chin, amused at my expression, then headed for the door. "If you need anything, use the telephone there, and a maid will bring it up. If you'd rather eat in the dining room, call the kitchen downstairs and tell them that. The house is yours, enjoy."

  He was out the door and closing it before I could reply. I turned in circles, staring at the pretty double bed with four posters and an arching canopy of heavy lace. Blue and ivory. How these two rooms must have suited her. Her chaise was blue satin, while the other three chairs in her bedroom matched those in the sitting room. I wandered on into the dressing and bathroom area, thrilled by all the mirrors, the crystal chandeliers, the hidden lighting that lit up the huge walk-in closet spaces. Framed photographs lined the long dressing table. Soon I was sitting and staring at a pretty little girl sitting on her father's knee.

  The child had to be my mother! And that man my true grandfather! Excited and trembling I picked up the small silver frame.

  At that very moment someone rapped softly on my bedroom door. "Who's there?" I called.

  "It is Beatrice Percy," answered a stiff, female voice. "Mr. Tatterton sent me up to see if I could help you unpack and organize your things." The door opened and into my bedroom stepped a tall woman in a black maid's uniform. She smiled at me vaguely.

  "Everyone here calls me Percy. You may do that as well. I will be your personal maid while you are here.

  I have training that qualifies me to do your hair and give you manicures, and if you wish I will draw you a tub now." She waited with an air of urgency.

  "I usually bathe before going to b
ed, or shower first thing in the morning," I said with embarrassment.

  I was not used to talking about intimate things with a strange woman.

  "Mr. Tatterton ordered me to check on you."

  "Thank you, Percy, but I don't need anything right now."

  "Is there anything that you cannot eat, or shouldn't eat?"

  "My appetite is very good—I can eat anything, and like most everything." No, mine wasn't a finicky appetite, or else I would have starved to death.

  "Would you like dinner to be sent here?"

  "Whatever makes it easier for you, Percy."

  Her frown came fast but slight, as if such an easygoing mistress unsettled her. "The servants are here to make life as comfortable as possible for those in this house. If you dine up here or in the dining room, we will be there to serve your needs."

  Thoughts of dining alone in that huge room downstairs, seated at that long table with all those empty chairs, washed me over with loneliness. "If you will bring me up something light about seven, that will be enough."

  "Yes, miss," she said, appearing relieved she could do something for me, and then she was gone.

  And I'd forgotten to ask her if she knew my mother!

  Again I turned to complete my search of my mother's rooms. It seemed to me that everything had been left as it had been the day she ran, though it had been freshly aired, vacuumed, and dusted. One by one I began picking up the silver-framed photographs, studying them closely, trying to find the side of my mother Granny and Grandpa had known nothing about. So many snapshots. How beautiful Jillian was, seated with her daughter, her devoted husband standing behind her. Faded and faint, a childishly written caption was on the rim of the photograph: "Daddy, Mommy, and me."

  A drawer revealed a fat photo album. Slowly, slowly I turned the heavy pages, staring at the snapshots of a girl growing up, growing prettier through the years. Birthday parties blossomed in full color, her fifth, sixth, seventh, on up to her thirteenth. Leigh Diane VanVoreen, over and over again it was written, as if she delighted in her name. Cleave VanVoreen, my daddy. Jillian VanVoreen, my mommy. Jennifer Longstone, my best friend. Winterhaven, soon to be my school. Joshua John Bennington, my first boyfriend. Maybe my last.

  And already, long before I'd turned even half the pages, I was jealous of this beautiful blond girl and her wealthy parents and her fabulous clothes.

  She'd had trips to zoos and museums and even foreign countries, when I'd had only pictures of Yellowstone Park shown in worn-out, dirty copies of National Geographic or in school textbooks. A lump came in my throat to see Leigh with Daddy and Mommy on a steamship heading for some distant port. There she was, Leigh VanVoreen, frantically waving goodbye to someone who took her picture. More pictures of Leigh on board ship, swimming, or with Daddy teaching her to dance and Mommy taking pictures. In London before Big Ben, or watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

  Somewhere long before my mother changed

  from child to adolescent, I lost most of my pity for a girl who had died too young. She had experienced in her short life ten times more fun and excitement than I had known, or would likely know in twenty of my years yet to come. She'd had a real father in her most important years, a kind and gentle man from the look of his pictures, to tuck her into bed at night, to hear her prayers, to teach her what men were all about.

  How had I ever presumed to think that Cal Dennison had loved me? How could I presume now that Logan would ever want me again, when it was more than likely they'd see in me the same thing that Pa had.

  No, no, I tried to tell myself. Not to love me had been Pa's loss, not mine. I hadn't been permanently damaged. Someday I'd make a good wife and mother. I wiped at my weak tears and told them never to come again. What good was self-pity? I'd never see Pa again. I didn't want to see Pa again.

  Again I studied the photographs. I had never known young girls could wear clothes so fine, when my fondest dreams at nine and ten and eleven had been to own something from the sale racks in Sears.

  And Kitty had taught me about the K Mart. I stared at photos of Leigh riding a shiny brown horse, her riding clothes showing off her blond fairness to perfection, and with her was Daddy. Always with her was Daddy.

  I saw Leigh in school pictures, swimming at the beach, in private swimming pools, proud of her developing figure. Her posture told me she was proud, and all about her were admiring friends. Then, abruptly, Daddy disappeared from the pictures.

  With Daddy gone, Leigh's happy smiles also vanished. Darkness troubled her eyes now, and her lips lost their ability to smile. There was Mommy with a new man, a much younger and handsomer man. I knew immediately this very tanned and blond man was twenty-year-old Tony Tatterton. And strangely, the beautiful, radiant girl who had smiled with confident candor-1Mo the camera lens before could not manage even a faint, false smile. Now she could only stand slightly apart from her mother with her new man.

  I quickly turned the last page. Oh, oh, oh! The second wedding of Jillian. My mother at twelve wearing a pink junior bridesmaid's long dress, carrying a bouquet of sweetheart roses, and, standing slightly to her side, a very young boy who tried to smile, though Leigh VanVoreen made no effort at all.

  The little boy had to be Tony's brother Troy. A slight boy with a mop of dark hair, huge eyes that didn't seem happy.

  Tired now, drained emotionally, I wanted to escape all the knowledge that was coming at me so fast. My mother had not trusted or liked her stepfather! How could I confide in him now? Yet I had to stay and get that college degree that meant my whole future.

  At the windows, I stood looking down at the circular drive that snaked about to become one long, winding road to the outside. I watched Jillian and Tony, wearing evening clothes, step into a beautiful new car that he drove. No limousine this time . . .

  because they didn't want a chauffeur waiting for them?

  Alone, so alone I felt when their car was out of sight.

  What to do with myself until seven? I was hungry right now. Why hadn't I told Percy that? What was wrong with me that I felt so shy and vulnerable, when I had determined to be strong? It was being shut up too long, in the plane, in the car, here, I told myself. And I went downstairs and pulled my blue coat from a closet that held half a dozen furs belonging to Jillian. Then I headed for the front door.

  Three

  Beyond the Maze

  .

  FAST AND FURIOUS I WALKED, NOT

  KNOWING WHERE I was going, only that I was breathing deeply the "briny scent of the sea," as Tony had put it. Several times I skipped backward so I could admire Farthy as seen on the-ground from the outside. So many windows to clean! Such high and wide windows. And all that marble, how did they keep it clean? As I backed away, slowing my walk, I tried to see which windows were mine. Suddenly I collided with something, and quickly turning I confronted not a wall, but a hedge that was almost a wall it grew so tall, and went on and on. Fascinated by what I thought it might be, I followed it until I discovered, yes! An English maze. And with a certain childish delight I entered the maze, not for one moment thinking it could confound me. I'd find the way out. I'd always been good at puzzles. Why, in intelligence tests Tom and I had always known how to send our mice to the cheese, or our pirates to the treasure.

  It was pretty in here, with the hedges growing as tall as ten feet, and making precise, right-angle turns, and it was so quiet! All the small chirpings of the garden birds sounded distant and faded. Even the plaintive shrieks of the sea gulls flying overhead were muffled, faraway. The house that had seemed so close was lost when I turned to check—where was it? The tall hedges shut off the warmth of the failing sun.

  Soon it was more than just briskly chill. My footsteps quickened. Perhaps I should have told Percy I was going outside. I glanced at my watch. Almost six-thirty, in half an hour someone would be bringing up my supper. Was I going to miss my first meal in my very own sitting room? And no doubt someone would light those logs already laid on kind
ling. It would be nice to sit before my very own fire, curled up in a fancy chair, nibbling on delicacies I'd probably never eat anywhere but here. I made another turn, and shortly met another dead end. I turned again. This time I'd take the right turn. But now that I'd turned in circles several times, I'd lost directions and couldn't tell paths I'd already used. That's when I pulled a tissue from my coat pocket, tore off a strip, and tied it to a hedge branch. There, we'd see how soon I was out now.

  The sun in its descent to the horizon blazed the sky with vibrant colors, warning me that soon night would fall with a deeper blanket of cold. But what was this civilized Boston area compared to the wildness of the Willies? Only too soon I found out that a coat purchased in Atlanta was not meant for those living north of Boston!

  Oh, come now, this was silly! I was wearing the best coat I'd ever owned, bought for me by Cal Dennison.

  It had a small, blue velvet collar that only a month ago I'd considered elegant.

  Me, who used to roam the hills when I was two and three and was never lost, confounded by a silly maze, meant for fun! I shouldn't panic. There had to be something I was doing wrong. For the third time I arrived at the pink strip of tissue blowing in the wind.

  I tried to concentrate . . . I pictured the maze, the place where I'd entered, but all the pathways between the high hedges looked alike, and I was almost afraid to leave the comfort of my torn tissue that at least told me where I'd been three times. As I stood there indecisively, straining my ears to hear the surf pounding on the shore, I heard not the ocean waves crashing on the rocks, but a steady tap-tap-tap. Somebody hammering. Humanity nearby. I let my ears guide me forward.

  Night settled quickly, heavily, and mists of fog curled on the ground where cold air met the warmer earth and there was no wind that low to sweep it up and out. On and on I followed the sound of the hammering. Then, alarmingly, I heard a window close, bang! No more tapping! The silence stunned me with its frightening implications. I could wander around out here all night, and no one would know.