Midnight at Mallyncourt by Jennifer Wilde Page A

loathe him as an individual.
    I could hear water dancing in the wild, overgrown gardens in back of the lawn, beyond the line of shrubs. There were fountains there, I knew, and lily ponds and a hidden grotto. Water made splashing night music, and a frog croaked. It was growing late. I really should go back inside. Rising, I began to stroll slowly back toward the veranda, thinking about Vanessa now. I wondered how long we would be able to keep up that formal, strained politeness, how long the hostility could be kept contained behind a pretense of civility. Each of us knew exactly where the other stood, yet neither of us wanted to declare open warfare. When that happend, I would be ready. Four years in the theater, with its infighting and jealousies and daily bitchery had more than prepared me to hold my own.
    Lost in thought, I stepped into the nest of shifting black shadows that filled the veranda. My skirts rustled stiffly. My heels tapped noisily on the flagstones. I stopped, abruptly. My blood seemed to run cold. Someone was here. Someone was watching me. I could feel hostile eyes, sense a presence. Very little moonlight spilled over the balustrade. The veranda was dark, layer upon layer of shadows spilling down like a misty black fog. I peered down the length of it, my hand to my heart, trying to still the rapid palpitations. I thought I saw a darker black form leaning against the wall a few yards ahead, the outline barely visible, black on black. As I watched, the form moved. A loud scratching noise broke the silence. A match blossomed into sizzling yellow-orange flame, and the burning blossom moved, rising, touched the tip of a slender black cigar. Briefly, before the light vanished, I saw Lyman’s face. Heavy lids concealed his eyes as he concentrated on the cigar. I caught my breath, relieved and irritated at the same time as I approached him.
    â€œYou—you might have let me known you were there!” I said crossly.
    â€œDid I frighten you?” he asked in a bored voice.
    â€œI thought—I don’t know what I thought! I didn’t expect anyone to be there—”
    â€œNo need to be frightened, Mrs. Baker. Contrary to what your husband may have told you, I don’t leap out of the darkness to strangle lone women whenever the moon is full.”
    â€œHe said no such thing. Don’t be absurd.”
    â€œI dare say he painted me black, though.”
    â€œHow long have you been standing there?” I asked, ignoring his comment.
    â€œHalf an hour or so.”
    â€œThen you were there when—”
    â€œWhen you came out. Yes. I was rather surprised to see you. I thought perhaps my wife had eaten you alive. You’ve going to be something of a trial to Vanessa, I’m afraid. She’s not accustomed to competition.”
    â€œI have no intentions of competing with her.”
    â€œYour mere presence will be a challenge to her,” he continued. “She’ll feel threatened, outdo herself in order to compensate. No, Vanessa’s not going to be easy to live with, I fear. Not that she ever was.”
    â€œI—this evening, before dinner—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI wasn’t eavesdropping. I was already sitting in the recess when you came into the gallery. I didn’t know what to—”
    â€œForget it,” he said.
    â€œI wouldn’t want you to think—” For some reason I didn’t seem to be able to finish a sentence.
    â€œWhat could it possibly matter to you what I think, Mrs. Baker?”
    â€œIt doesn’t!” I snapped.
    â€œVanessa and I have no secrets from the world. Dveryone knows about us. Feel free to eavesdrop anytime you like.”
    I bit back the scathing retort that sprang to mind. I said nothing. The man was insufferable, insufferably rude. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness now, and I could see his face, all shadowed planes, broad cheekbones prominent, eyes dark, half