The Bewitching Grace

CHAPTER ONE

"What did you have to do to get the man to marry you?" I laughed as I said it and sipped my coffee. Miranda and I were just settling down on the second story gallery after a tour of the old, Greek revival mansion. My comment was a typically female expression, a form of congratulation, an expression of mild envy, nothing more.

Miranda went still, her hands tightening on the lounge chair arms until her close-bitten fingernails turned white. Her brown eyes, soft and vulnerable, stared into mine while a stray breeze ruffled her fine dark hair. The moment stretched, and puzzlement must have come into my face for suddenly she took a deep breath, like a child that has been frightened, and smiled.

"Nothing. I--chased him until he caught me, of course."

The evening sun, cut into oblong squares by shadows from the great round columns, fell across the gallery. It splashed in fiery reflections from the windows and doors of the wall behind us and pooled in our laps as we lay on the lounges, leaving our faces in shadow.

Before us stretched the front lawn divided by a straight drive bordered with oaks waving fists full of new leaves. Beneath the oaks the tender green of the grass spread to a drift of lavender Louisiana phlox footing a row of pink azaleas. Just above the grass a host of orange insects, gauzy, ethereal, danced to unheard music, a waltz of Spring in the sun-gilded silence that was beautiful but sad because it would be so brief.

With the folding of the day the air became cooler, and I held my cup close in my hands for its warmth, staring out over the lawn. Miranda asked about the people we had known when we had worked and roomed together, and I tried to reply naturally. It was not easy, not with the exasperated concern that tugged at the back of my mind.

Miranda was in trouble again. There was no real surprise for me in the discovery. The wedding, a miserable affair, was enough to make anyone suspicious, that and the secrecy of her meetings with the man she had married, Louis Blackwell. I thought I knew the reason for that, but it was hard to understand her silence about the Blackwell money, the plantation called Indian Mound, the background and prestige that went with the old ante-bellum mansion.

I can hardly remember a time when I did not know Miranda. She and her parents moved across the street when I was almost four. She was an only child. I was the eldest of three. She was dark eyed, dark haired and foreign. I was blonde, blue eyed, and as American as an ice cream cone. Within a few days of their moving in we both had our seventh birthdays.

After a time we played only at my house. My parents, happy and contended, little ruffled the even flow of our lives. The shouting, the atmosphere of strain at Miranda's house frightened me. Her mother was Italian. She wore barbaric jewelry and odd clothes in strong colors instead of the neat housedresses my own mother wore. When she cooked, which was not often, it was great pots of highly seasoned food. She grew her own herbs to go in it in a tiny patch of ground by the back door. She did not care for children and could not be troubled to hide it, so when Miranda called from across the street I would shake my head and motion her over to my house.

My mother, I'm sure, was relieved. When Miranda came she was especially welcoming, ready with cookies and milk in summer and hot cocoa and cake in winter. She would wash Miranda's grubby hands, brush her hair, and watch her eat with a strange look in her eyes that I remember now as compassion.

Miranda was a quiet child, wearing clothes forever faded, forever wrinkled. She never spoke up in class and seldom could bring herself to answer a direct question from the teacher. She seemed to invite bullying and would stand looking at the ground while some little fiend yelled at her. I can remember being so angry with her that after chasing her tormentor away I would stand over her myself asking over and over why she did not fight back, stand up for herself. She never did, except over one thing, a doll her father had given her for Christmas. She didn't fight or cry, she just held on to it with a stranglehold, her mouth tight and a blank expression in her eyes. But that was after her father died.

The ambulance came for him in the middle of the night. It was a long white vehicle with blood red lettering and flashing lights and a screaming siren, a frightening thing as I watched from my bedroom window. Food poisoning was the cause of death, but there was inevitable talk. They never got along, people said, and just look at all those strange herbs she grows. You never can tell with them foreigners. It was worse, of course, when the woman began to stay out late at night or bring men home with her.

Miranda spent more and more time at my house. We joined the Girl Scouts. My dad quietly paid both dues. We grew, collected records, swam, played tennis, began to date, were sisters in all but name. I can still recall the grim look on my mother's face as she bought material to make two formals for the senior prom. We double-dated for the event. I suppose that is why I was so distressed when Miranda told me that she and her date had gone to his aunt's house afterward. His aunt was away, the house empty.

"It's all right. We are going to get married. He said so!" She said it breathlessly, happily. The boy had been in college almost two semesters without a word to her before she accepted the fact that he had deserted her.

That fall we left home. I stayed on the college campus where I was majoring in journalism, a rule for out-of-town students. Miranda found a job and an apartment, a tiny, one-room, roach-infested affair with a hot plate and peeling walls. She had no interest in college, or pretended she didn't because she could not afford it.

In the next four years Miranda went from job to job. At one place the woman in charge handed her a message on a piece of cardboard as her walking papers while she was on the telephone. In another her employer refused her her first week's pay unless she allowed him certain privileges. She tried several higher-paying jobs but was let go after the first month or so. She finally settled into a boring typist-receptionist position, but in the process of finding her level she developed a veneer of hardness. She could tell a persistent man to "get lost" or she could discourage advances with a display of brisk efficiency or brittle sarcasm; but there was still something about her, some obvious vulnerability, that seemed to invite insult. Never having had much trust in people, about then she seemed to lose what little she had.

When I graduated from college we found a better apartment and I went to work for one of the city newspapers. Later Miranda came to work at the paper too, and in the following week we learned that her mother had moved away from our home town, dropping out of her life with a completeness that was inconceivable to me; but Miranda took it with something approaching indifference. Soon after, she met Louis.

I noticed first a sense of withdrawal in Miranda, but I attributed it to the meetings and lectures on reincarnation, Eckankar, witchcraft and ESP that had begun to fascinate her. She knew that I did not approve--not so much the subjects as the out of way places where they were held and the weird people who attended. She did not mention meeting Louis at a lecture because she thought I would class him with the latter. As she began to stay out often and late, she became more secretive. Although, because it was obvious, she admitted she was seeing a man, she returned all questions about him with a cool stare. She never met him at the apartment. After a month of this, she announced the wedding date.

Her gown was pastel green, slim fitting, with a floating panel falling from the shoulders. With it she wore a hat of emerald satin encrusted with opals.

"But green and opals are unlucky!" I protested.

"It's what Louis wanted so it suits me. Oh Anne! Isn't it wonderful. We'll be so happy, I know it!"

She would have no bridesmaid and no one to give her away. As I handed her the bouquet and hugged her before she left the dressing room to the first notes of the bridal march, I whispered, "I hope so. Oh, I hope so."

Those were my last words to her until this evening. The bride and groom left the church together. The rest of the guests proceeded to the reception to stand around waiting, finally drinking the champagne. Louis and Miranda never came.

"I suppose J. P. is still as obnoxious as ever?"

Miranda said, as if in some strange way our thoughts had turned back together.

"Definitely. As a matter of fact he suggested I sponge off you this week. He called me in for an interview. You remember those--where you both have to talk so loud to be heard above the teletype that there is nothing private about them?"

"Afraid not. As a lowly receptionist I never had an interview in the editor's office."

"Lucky you. Anyway. He said knowing you should give me an entree to the ante-bellum homes around here, and I might as well take advantage of it. I think he envisions me in this assignment as worming my way into an ancient, closed aristocracy."

Miranda laughed, a short, hard sound. "With the emphasis these days on making these old houses into historical shrines of the grand old South I don't think any of the owners will turn down a bit of publicity."

"Don't, on any account, mention that to J. P. if he should call. He is convinced this will be a long, drawn out thing and I wouldn't want to disillusion him! Seriously, I want to thank you for letting me barge in on you and your new husband this way."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's nearly five months now, though it hardly seems possible. But if it had been only five days I would still be thrilled to have you. It feels like forever since I saw you last."

"That doesn't say much for the holy state," I said teasingly.

"It doesn't, does it?" An odd smile crossed her face as she looked out over the lawn.

I took a deep breath, nerving myself to come out with a frank question or two about her marriage, but Miranda forestalled me.

"Louis won't mind having you here. He doesn't mind anything much. He'll probably be glad to have someone to occupy me. It should be interesting to see if a smoked honey blonde with turquoise eyes can lure him away from his books."

"What?" She spoke so quietly that I wasn't at all sure I had heard her right.

"My husband, the ascetic," she went on as if I hadn't spoken. "He resists my allure so well, it will be interesting to see if he succumbs to your charm as all the rest of my boy friends used to do."

I could feel my face change. She stared at me a moment then she laughed. "Don't look like that, Anne. I'm only joking. Besides, he's married to me now so it won't do him any good."

I held her eyes with a straight look. "Aren't you happy, Miranda?"

"Rapturously," she said, and laughed.

The moment passed but the memory stayed.

Had Miranda kept Louis from me because she was afraid I would try to take him from her? I had never considered that her distrust of people extended to me. The thought hurt, not only for my sake, but for hers.

We went on to talk of my writing, the new fashions, the newest cosmetics, a passion of Miranda's. As always, when she became interested in a subject, Miranda punctuated her remarks with quick, exuberant gestures. The action brought her fingers, stubby looking without their nails, into view and I said impulsively, "What have you been doing to yourself? You had the most beautiful hands."

Quickly she clenched her hands and dropped them into her lap. Her face took a set, closed-in expression.

The silence that followed might have been uncomfortable but for an interruption in the form of a tractor chugging down the road beside the spiked metal fence that divided the front lawn from the road. It turned in, crossed the cattle gap of spaced iron rails, and came through the open gate toward us, up the gravel driveway. Behind it loped a great shaggy dog. He was black and rangy with the wide spaced eyes and broad head of German Shepherd dogs descended from wolves.

Sitting in the tractor seat, giving easily to the lumbering modon, was a dark man. Shirtless in the evening cool, there was a notably relaxed air about him that gave the impression of control so complete it was effortless.

"Louis?" I asked. I had met him briefly at the wedding but in the misleading light of sunset I was unsure.

Miranda shook her head. "His brother."

"I didn't know he had one."

She smiled at the questioning tone of my voice. My curiosity quotient was no surprise to her. I saw, for a moment, the old teasing light come back into her eyes, then she decided to be generous. "That's Stephan, Louis's younger brother. You'll also meet their Aunt Hattie. The best of luck with both of them."

"Meaning?"

"You'll see."

A feeling of unease came over me as I tried to think how to ask if I was unwelcome without sounding as if I were merely being polite.

Out on the drive the man on the moving tractor was staring up at us. Pale sunlight slid with a golden gleam across his broad shoulders and glinted in the wave that winged back from his temple.

Expressionlessly we stared at each other until I felt I could no longer keep a straight face. Just before I succumbed to a grin at the childishness of it, he looked away, swinging the tractor along the drive that curved around the house. The contempt expressed in that smooth motion and the implied dismissal effectively stifled my amusement. Just for a moment I felt totally unimportant, as if the estimation I had seen in his eyes had assigned me to the role of an inferior.

Slowly I answered Miranda's last words. "Perhaps I will."

Her mouth twitched. "Don't let Stephen get to you. He has a fatal attribute, he doesn't care for women. He isn't a misogynist, he doesn't really hate them. He just has no use for us as individuals. From what I can discover, women figure in his calculations briefly, occasionally, and physically.

"Not really?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you." She stood up. "This household revolves around Stephen's work schedule. I had better go and see how supper is coming along. It's as informal as it sounds, but I'll show you to your room anyway. Dress if you like, don't if you didn't come prepared. It doesn't really matter, it's that kind of meal and that kind of house."

It was dim in the wide central hall that ran through the house. Tall double doors, twins to those through which we had just passed, opened out from the far end at the back, letting in faint light through the glass. Our footsteps were muffled by a velvet pile carpet in burgundy that contrasted sharply with white painted tongue-and-groove walls. Above the double line of closed doors, was a cornice of pineapple rosettes, the symbol for hospitality. Each of the bedrooms opening off the hall had been redecorated recently with its own bath added, Miranda said. This was corroborated by the smell of fresh paint and the red dust from the shedding burgundy carpet pile that powdered the baseboards. The staircase on the right wall, with its mahogany handrail and pineapple newel post, lead to a ballroom that covered the entire third floor. A piece of plywood closed off the stairway to keep heat from escaping up into that vast empty space.

I was delighted with the canopied four poster bed in my room. It was not a mallard bed, the prize museum piece of the period, but was graceful and authentic, like the rest of the furnishings in the room.

I discovered, when I lay down on the bed for a few minutes, that I was more tired than I had realized. When I closed my eyes the long miles of blacktop road with red clay ditches unwound before me. "Stock At Large" signs haunted me with memories of all the times I had slowed to pass around cows, calmly chewing their cuds in the middle of the road. I had nearly missed the dewberry-overgrown turning for the drive that lead to Indian Mound, despite Miranda's well drawn map. There had been so many turnings. But it would have been hard to miss the great white house sitting back among the trees. It was so incongruous, like royalty banished to the backwoods.

I moved my head restlessly and opened my eyes to stare up at the gold sunburst in the underside of the canopy. My eyes felt grainy with fatigue but there was no rest in my mind.

I had expected to see Miranda happy, content--or had I? Perhaps it had only been a hope. Miranda was one of the unlucky ones. No matter what she did, it never seemed to come out right.

Sighing, I went over what Miranda had said and left unsaid. I felt a touch of guilt for the attitude, but I was exasperated with her for her inability to lead a smooth life. Was the melodrama that inevitably accompanied her of her own making, or did she attract it as innocently as a tree does lightning?

A warm scented bath and a change of clothes improved my outlook. I had almost convinced myself that Miranda's problems were none of my business by the time I had brushed my hair into place and put on my makeup.

I was just closing my compact when I heard a faint sound at the door like something brushing against it. I turned my head toward the sound, frowning as I listened.

Slowly the handle of the great door began to turn.

"Who is it?" I called out.

There was no answer. The heavy door swung open a crack.

"Who's there?" Curiosity more than fear sounded in my voice for I was not at all sure that the opening of the door wasn't caused by the uneven flooring or some other equally obvious explanation.

A whisper came clearly, plaintive at first, then harsh.

"Go--away.... Go away!"

Disbelief paralyzed me. I stood staring for seconds after the voice has stopped. Then I moved toward the door, uncertainty making me feel stupid and slow.

I pulled it open and stepped out into the hall, barely noticing the grating sound underfoot.

No one was there, but the French doors leading to the gallery stood open. Beginning to recover from my surprise I moved swiftly to them, my feet making no sound on the thick, new carpet.

The gallery was dark compared to the bright hall, but in a moment I could see the shape of the lounges at one end and the stark row of columns. The shadows were still. No one was there.

Whoever it was would have to be a better than average athlete to get down from the gallery. Nothing but smooth white columns led to the ground and it was a long drop over the balustrade. Sighing, half inclined to blame my imagination, I turned back inside. Then I saw the thing outside my bedroom door.

I approached cautiously, looking down at the white circle and cross of sticks in the light from the acanthus leaf bracket near the door. Suddenly I knelt, touched a finger to the white sand-like ring and then touched it to my tongue. I was right. The white ring was a poured circle of salt. The sticks were small dead oak limbs. The circle, with the cross inside, was no larger than a basketball.

"Lost something?"

The voice was smooth, deep, perfectly normal, but my nerves were not. I started and looked over my shoulder at Stephan.

"Found something," I answered him.

He strolled toward me and I stood up, not liking the idea of him staring down at me, though in a sense the action was meaningless. He still looked down at me several inches. His hair gleamed wetly, the wave subdued by combing. He wore dark blue slacks, a blue sports shirt open at the neck, and his eyes, their color indefinite behind half closed lids, were uninterested. They barely flickered as he noticed the circled cross.

It was enough. "What is it?" I asked.

"Get out your pad and pencil, Newspaper Lady," he said. "You have been hexed. That's a voodoo fetish."

I looked down at it, then up at his faint smile. If he expected hysterics, he wasn't going to get them.

"Voodoo," I said in a flat tone.

Turning he walked toward the stairs. "It means," he said casually, as he put his hand on the newel post and started down, "go away."