Malcolm was right. If he wanted Mallory, he must not pursue her anymore. He would not try to see her again. She always found him so predictable, she would not know what to make of that. It would definitely disconcert her. Well, good. If it gave her a few bad moments, she well deserved it.
Thank you, Malcolm.
Two fragrant bowls of thick gumbo and rice were set on the table. He looked up and met Augusta’s eyes. She stared at him with such intensity, he wondered if she was tracking his thoughts. Had he simply become conditioned to this paranoia? Or was she even more skilled than Malcolm Laurie?
Ah, but it was all in his face, wasn’t it? – the anger, the petulance, the plotting. Augusta, a master of human nature, was watching his slow fall into the dangerous pit she had just mapped out for him. She had drawn a huge sign and set flares by the side of the road, hadn’t she? But he had gone off the edge, stone blind and foolish.
“I do understand,” he said, and this was finally true. He would not be seduced by the evangelist. Mallory was his friend. Whatever she needed from him, it was hers, whether she wanted his help or not. If he had been in trouble, Mallory would have done the same for him. How could he have forgotten that?
Having restored his priorities and prevented his fall from grace, Augusta sat down at the table with him and bent over her bowl. Though they ate in silence, there was much going on between them. He smiled and inclined his head to acknowledge his admiration for her dark science of human behavior. She smiled back, approving his good sense in following her advice, however slow he might have been to catch on.
By the time their meal was done and they were working on the second round of coffee, Charles’s mood had changed radically. The food had done wonders for his state of mind. In fact, he was feeling slightly euphoric.
Augusta eyed him over the rim of her cup. Her expression could only be described as good-natured evil. “I bet you’re feeling better now.”
“Miles better. Your cooking has worked a miracle.”
She nodded. “That’s the Saint-John’s-wort talking.”
“Pardon?”
“Hypericum perforatum.” She pointed to one of the small herb gardens along the windowsills. “It’s that pretty little yellow flower. I gave it to my mother to treat her depression. ‘Course she died. But I seem to be having better luck with you.”
“You drugged my food?”
“Oh, not much. That silly looking grin on your face will wear off in a little while. Now that side effect comes from one of my hybrids.”
“You drugged me?”
“Time to call Henry,” she said, pushing her chair away from the table and politely ignoring the fact that he was repeating himself.
Charles’s smile would not leave his face, but it had grown a bit tense as he followed her out of the kitchen and into another doorway off the hall.
This larger room was a century removed from the modern kitchen. Diffused light softly illuminated hand-colored Audubon prints on every wall. On a round table with delicate wood inlays and intricately carved legs, her sketchbook lay open at the foot of a rare white owl. Around the room, a score of other birds fixed him with their bright eyes, their bodies frozen in that tense moment before the flight, or the attack. They were all artful compliments to the craftsmanship of Augusta’s taxidermist.
So she had followed Audubon’s custom of using dead models for the drawings.
The ceiling was low, creating the atmosphere of a cottage. The tables and odd pieces were a mix of periods and styles; all were in fabulous condition. It was a cluttered but comfortable room with a narrow bed built into the window alcove. Against one wall, an armoire was flanked by two French Régence bookcases, and volumes with ornithology titles were stacked on every surface. Apparently, this single room served as her living quarters. Why had she retired into this small portion of a mansion?
He had no sooner sat down on the couch than the cat joined him on the brocade and forced him to move off the center cushion by advancing on him only an inch or two – with her lips curled back over a mouthful of pointed teeth. She arranged herself on the vacated cushion and continued to stare at him in silent contempt.
Augusta was speaking into a telephone which he could date to the first decade of the century. “I counted twelve taps. Tap again if I got that right, Henry.” She turned to Charles. “Is twelve noon all right with you?”
“Yes.” He was looking at a narrow staircase leading up to the main floor above them.
“Well, fine. Thank you, Henry.” She set the antique phone receiver back on its cradle. “He’ll meet you at the house. Now the large key will unlock the front door, and the smaller one will let you into the attic where I stored Cass’s personal things.”
Charles waved his hand to include the entire room. “This is an amazing collection of antiques. I love your house.”
“But there’s forty-odd rooms you haven’t seen. Would you like a tour of the place?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
And now he noticed the neighboring cushion was cat-free. He turned to see the animal stealing up the staircase. Clever creature; she had anticipated them. She was waiting, purring, when they reached the top of the stairs. Augusta stood on the landing and hissed in the cat’s own language. The animal backtracked to stand on the stair behind Charles.
“Be sure you don’t let her out.” Augusta passed through the door and left Charles to fend off the wild thing with one shoe. He escaped with only minor damage to one pantleg.
He stepped into a long gallery, and space expanded in all directions. Every flat plane was a far distance and every vertical line soared. He judged the ceilings to be at least eighteen feet high, and the doorframes were made for eleven-foot giants.
Augusta’s hand rested on a Dresden china doorknob as she pointed up to the ornate friezes at the ceiling molding. The upper wall was studded with delicate roses. “The flowers were made from a mixture of Spanish moss and plaster.”
She guided him into a room of even more generous proportion. Tall windows extended from floor to ceiling and provided light enough to see delicate tapestries falling to tatters on the walls, and mold gathering on the furniture. All the pieces in this room might have been worthy of a museum, but now they were beyond restoration. The cracked window-panes had allowed rain damage. A chair-backed settee was kneeling on broken forelegs. The thick Oriental rug, which should have lasted centuries was rotting on the floor. Threads gave way under his shoes and beetles ran out from underfoot.
So poverty was not the cause of the neglect. The sale of these pieces would have paid for maintenance on the house. He averted his eyes as they passed by a cracking landscape of foggy moon and ghostly trees. It had been worth a fortune – once. They passed into the vast dining room, where other precious paintings were warping and cracking on water-stained walls.
“Why has it all gone to ruin?” He hadn’t meant to ask that aloud, but he could not contain himself.
“Well, I had to let the house rot. That was a promise I made to my father as he was dying.”
Had the man been demented? That probably would be a rude question, and Charles kept it to himself as he followed her back to the long gallery, where another set of doors opened onto a grand ballroom.
Now this was glorious, luminous. The white walls and floor reflected all the light at the end of the day and dazzled him into a wide smile. But now his smile waned as he stared at the ruined marble floor. Each tile bore a crack and some were nearly pounded to dust.
“You can blame that damage on one of my horses,” said Augusta. “That Appaloosa was a good strong animal, but you’d be amazed how much punishment the tiles can take before they crack.” And then in the afterthought of a tour guide, she said, “It’s all Italian marble.”