arm of the couch and the cushion. Francesca, catching her eye, said, “Upstairs and straight ahead of you,” and Katy smiled gratefully and started up the narrow staircase.
The house was old; this part, the original structure, was pre-Revolutionary, and in places gave the effect of a sounding board. That was why she heard the voices—drifting, apparently, from a darkened bedroom at the top of the stairs. The voices weren’t in the bedroom. They were, Katy realized, coming from the tiny coat-room directly under it.
She stood still, staring into blackness, and listened involuntarily. Below her Cassie said, “I know, but I can’t talk to you now.”
A voice with a shrug in it. “Very well. It was you who—”
“I didn’t know then that we were having people in tonight. I’m sorry if you…” Cassie was apologetic, conciliatory. “I’m still prepared to—” Whatever she was prepared to do didn’t become apparent; her tone lowered and Katy heard only an undecipherable murmur. Cracks between the wide floor-boards at her feet showed a faint glimmer of light that was suddenly blotted out; someone in the room below her had moved. Cassie’s voice came back, “—but you’ll have to wait. It’ll be worth your while.”
The other voice changed subtly, became casual, cold, triumphant. “I came to tell you something else, Miss Poole.”
Who was it? Where, before, had Katy heard that oddly detached, dispassionate tone? All at once she was back in a dim, stuffy room by the little pond, was hearing that remote voice say, “We have a very fine view from here, Miss Meredith.”
Ilse. Ilse Petersen was here in Francesca’s house, with an air of careless command over Arnold Poole’s daughter. It was queerly shocking, even appalling, when Katy remembered the sudden defenseless pain in Francesca’s eyes, the look that completely denied her poised amusement over Arnold and his sculptress.
Cassie’s voice was different too. Bitter, edged with scorn. “Oh. You were spying on my father, I suppose?”
“Under the circumstances, I’d call it rather—justified interest, wouldn’t you, Miss Poole? But what I saw and heard at the Inn was infinitely more interesting…” Their voices died again to a meaningless mumble. Seconds later a door below Katy opened softly, then another door. It latched. The interview was over.
Katy moved numbly out of the darkness. In the bathroom she splashed cold water against her cheeks, used a feathery powder puff, drew a controlled red mouth with her lipstick. Remember, she thought warningly, remember the letter you thought you recognized, the letter from Aunt Beth in Buffalo. And knew, as she went down the staircase, that this was something very different indeed. In one of the audible intervals, when the blurred voices had sharpened to clarity, she had caught, unmistakably, the sound of her own name.
There were carnations on the table, pale and spicy. They had once reminded Katy of the cool dim rock-garden under mulberry trees behind the Meredith house. They reminded her now of Monica’s snowy grave under the gaunt blue spruce in the cemetery. Mr. Pickering touched fringed petals with a surprisingly gentle finger. “Pretty things,” he said.
A girl Francesca had lured away from a friend for the evening served clear soup, chicken with something cunning and winy to the sauce, tiny, tender brown mushrooms, salad. Katy took only one careful glance at Cassie. Her delicate face was pale, the shadows more definite, but she was serene above the brilliance of her dress.
They had coffee in the living room, were lighting cigarettes when the second interruption came. Someone said, “Is it letting up any?” and Michael opened a window near him. Snowflakes spun into the room, eddied over the sill. Michael said, “It’s a gale,” and started to close the window. But not before they heard it—the rattle of tire chains grinding around the curve, the slam of a car door a moment
The house was old; this part, the original structure, was pre-Revolutionary, and in places gave the effect of a sounding board. That was why she heard the voices—drifting, apparently, from a darkened bedroom at the top of the stairs. The voices weren’t in the bedroom. They were, Katy realized, coming from the tiny coat-room directly under it.
She stood still, staring into blackness, and listened involuntarily. Below her Cassie said, “I know, but I can’t talk to you now.”
A voice with a shrug in it. “Very well. It was you who—”
“I didn’t know then that we were having people in tonight. I’m sorry if you…” Cassie was apologetic, conciliatory. “I’m still prepared to—” Whatever she was prepared to do didn’t become apparent; her tone lowered and Katy heard only an undecipherable murmur. Cracks between the wide floor-boards at her feet showed a faint glimmer of light that was suddenly blotted out; someone in the room below her had moved. Cassie’s voice came back, “—but you’ll have to wait. It’ll be worth your while.”
The other voice changed subtly, became casual, cold, triumphant. “I came to tell you something else, Miss Poole.”
Who was it? Where, before, had Katy heard that oddly detached, dispassionate tone? All at once she was back in a dim, stuffy room by the little pond, was hearing that remote voice say, “We have a very fine view from here, Miss Meredith.”
Ilse. Ilse Petersen was here in Francesca’s house, with an air of careless command over Arnold Poole’s daughter. It was queerly shocking, even appalling, when Katy remembered the sudden defenseless pain in Francesca’s eyes, the look that completely denied her poised amusement over Arnold and his sculptress.
Cassie’s voice was different too. Bitter, edged with scorn. “Oh. You were spying on my father, I suppose?”
“Under the circumstances, I’d call it rather—justified interest, wouldn’t you, Miss Poole? But what I saw and heard at the Inn was infinitely more interesting…” Their voices died again to a meaningless mumble. Seconds later a door below Katy opened softly, then another door. It latched. The interview was over.
Katy moved numbly out of the darkness. In the bathroom she splashed cold water against her cheeks, used a feathery powder puff, drew a controlled red mouth with her lipstick. Remember, she thought warningly, remember the letter you thought you recognized, the letter from Aunt Beth in Buffalo. And knew, as she went down the staircase, that this was something very different indeed. In one of the audible intervals, when the blurred voices had sharpened to clarity, she had caught, unmistakably, the sound of her own name.
There were carnations on the table, pale and spicy. They had once reminded Katy of the cool dim rock-garden under mulberry trees behind the Meredith house. They reminded her now of Monica’s snowy grave under the gaunt blue spruce in the cemetery. Mr. Pickering touched fringed petals with a surprisingly gentle finger. “Pretty things,” he said.
A girl Francesca had lured away from a friend for the evening served clear soup, chicken with something cunning and winy to the sauce, tiny, tender brown mushrooms, salad. Katy took only one careful glance at Cassie. Her delicate face was pale, the shadows more definite, but she was serene above the brilliance of her dress.
They had coffee in the living room, were lighting cigarettes when the second interruption came. Someone said, “Is it letting up any?” and Michael opened a window near him. Snowflakes spun into the room, eddied over the sill. Michael said, “It’s a gale,” and started to close the window. But not before they heard it—the rattle of tire chains grinding around the curve, the slam of a car door a moment
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