CHAPTER ELEVEN - Rogue's Gallery
“She went where, Grant?” Alexandra demanded. “How could she just leave the grounds without telling us? There are important matters to discuss!”
“Miss Megan left rather abruptly, Madame,” Grant replied nervously. “She said she suddenly remembered that she had to go into the village to…mail a letter, that it was most imperative.”
“Well, why couldn’t she have one of the servants do that?” Robert groused, poking at the drawing room fire. “I mean, what do we pay them for, after all?”
Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Grant busied himself with clearing the sherry glasses before he spoke. “Actually, sir, Annie did accompany her. To make sure she…could find the post office.”
At that, Edmund turned away from his view of the grounds through the french windows and briskly checked his watch. “It’s been nearly two hours, I think even they could have found it by now. I’m going to go look for them. It’s nearly dark.”
As the young man strode past him, Jean sneered, “Worried she might be able to resist your charms this time, Edmund? “
“Jean!” Alexandra remonstrated.
Edmund stopped and smiled tightly. “Simply doing my job, Jean. Trying to help the family in whatever way I can.”
“Of course you are, Edmund,” Alexandra said firmly, crossing over to him. ”Thank heaven someone around here is. I think it would be best if you drove into town and brought her back. Megan is so…vulnerable right now. It wouldn’t do for the villagers to bother her with too many questions. Thank you for being such a support,” she said, touching him lightly on the sleeve.
Jean snapped his fingers, as if just remembering something. “Oh, and hey - Edmund?”
“What is it, Jean?
“Meant to ask you. Pretty snazzy watch you got there. New?”
Alexandra snatched her hand from Edmund’s arm and turned away. With a last glower directed towards Jean, Edmund stormed out of the room.
Jean snorted into his whiskey glass as he took a large swig.
Alexandra raised a scornful eyebrow at her eldest child. “And what do you find so amusing, Jean? I’m surprised you can still stand, the way you’ve been drinking. And for god’s sake, take your hand out of your pants pockets! It’s so common. And stop slouching! How many times do I have to say it? Honestly, you look like a rumpled question mark.”
“Ah, but isn’t that exactly what I am?” Jean replied with a lopsided grin. Nevertheless, he straightened his posture and placed the empty glass on the mantle with exaggerated care. Gazing across the room, he called over to the golden-haired girl who sat in the corner, seemingly oblivious to the tensions swirling around her. “Ronnie, my dearest darling! I have been woefully neglecting you.”
The girl glanced up and smiled. “Oh that’s all right, honey,” She held up a large leather bound tome, blowing some of the dust off the cover. "I’ve just been browsing through this history of the St. Peter family. Fascinating stuff! Let me read you this bit.” She looked back down to find her place.“Did you know that in 1795 there was a w---“
Ronnie was interrupted by the sound of a strangled gasp and the crash of shattering glass. She looked up to see three terrified faces staring at her. Or rather, not at her, but at the book. At Alexandra’s feet were the broken remains of her sherry glass.
Robert was the first to recover. “Where…did you find that?” he said in a strange voice.
“Just lying here on the spinet.” Ronnie said defensively. “I…didn’t…is it really valuable or something? I mean I know it’s old, but I thought that…”
“LIES. ALL LIES!” Alexandra shouted, then choked back a sob and buried her head against Robert’s shoulder.
“There, there, sister dear. We know that. Here, sit down.” her brother said, guiding her towards the large green couch. “Let me get you another glass.” As he did so, he gave a curt nod to Jean, indicating the book.
Jean crossed to Ronnie, carefully took the book from her hands, and handed it to Grant as if it were filled with nitroglycerine.
“Grant, would you please put this back where it belongs? “
“Yes, sir. Of course. At once.” He glanced in dismay at the shards of glass and the sherry rapidly soaking into the priceless Tabriz carpet. “And I’ll be back immediately to clean up the...umm...yes, quite.” Holding the book out at arm’s length, the harried butler quickly exited.
“You’ll have to excuse us, Ronnie.” Robert said with a reassuring smile, as he continued comforting his sister. “There has been so much written about our family, both good and bad, by those who really know nothing about us. Fiction born of jealousy and spite has, over the years - out of all proportion, mind you - grown into absolute fact in the minds of some…eccentric individuals. You’d be amazed at what ignorant people can create out of the slightest incidents. “
“Then, pardon me asking,” Ronnie replied, “but why do you keep a book like that around if you dislike what is inside it so much?
A silence permeated the room, broken only by the muted ticking of the big clock in the foyer.
“Know thy enemy, my dear. Know thy enemy,” Robert finally stated in a grim tone.
“I…I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Robert…” Alexandra raised her head. There was warning note in her voice, but her brother persisted.
“She’s one of us, Alex. Or will be soon enough. Time she should know.”
Alexandra snapped, “Robert, now is NOT the time!” She glared at her brother until he acquiesced with an exasperated sigh. Then, with another abrupt shift, Alexandra turned back to Ronnie and smiled winningly. “Please excuse my outburst, my dear. I sometimes take things too much to heart. The good reputation of Halstead and all those who live within its walls is…everything to me.”
Ronnie tried to return the smile. “Of course, Alexandra. I know you keep - I can’t say I blame you.”
Suddenly, Jean clapped his hands together as if to dispel the sudden gloom. “Hey Ronnie, I’ve got an idea! You’re interested in our history? Let me show you the East Wing.”
“Oh, but Jean, really,” Alexandra interjected. “It’s drafty up there and there are spiders and –“
“Nonsense. It’ll be fun and I’ll protect her from any and all giant arachnids.” He pulled Ronnie up from her chair and urged her out the door. “Go ahead, sweetie. I’ll meet you upstairs by the landing. I need to ask Mother something."
“Well, Okay, Jean, if you’re sure it’s…”
“It’s fine. Go on. I’ll be with you in a sec.”
Jean waited until he saw that his fiancé was safely upstairs, then closed the door softly and spun around to face Alexandra.
“What are you so worried about, Mother?” he hissed. “That she might have second thoughts about joining our illustrious clan? Isn’t it only right she should see what she’s getting into? What she’s getting her children into? The children that are so precious to you that you claim them already, no matter they aren’t REAL family. Do you actually think I’d allow her to give birth to any abomination that I’D create?”
Jean slammed out of the room before his mother could respond and ran up the stairs to join Ronnie, still waiting on the landing.
“Come on, let’s go meet the ancestors,” he said, grabbing her hand and tugging her along.
Ronnie, however, pulled him to a halt. “Jean, WAIT for heaven’s sake, what was that all about?”
“Oh, for world enough and time,” Jean smiled grimly.
“What did your uncle mean with all that 'know thy enemy' stuff?"
Jean looked away for a moment, as if deciding what to say. Finally, he turned back to her and asked,“Have you ever heard the name...Wilton Carandini?"
“No, I…it sounds familiar for some reason, but I can’t place it…I still don’t understand.”
“You will, Ronnie. You will.” It seemed as though he was about to say more, but then changed his mind. “No matter. He’s just a man I hope you never have to meet.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “Ronnie, you do trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Jean.”
“Foolish girl.” He gave her a wink and squeezed her hand. “Then follow me!”
“And here’s our very own Rogue’s Gallery,” said Jean as he swung open the heavy oak door at the far end of the East Wing. “Sorry the lights are so dim, but I prefer it -this way. It’s more spooky.” With a dramatic flourish, he ushered Ronnie in through the doorway. “These are the duffers we keep locked away, but of whom we are secretly proud. God, I used to spend hours up here... “
“Wow….” Ronnie looked around in amazement. Stretching all the way to the end of the long room and up to the ceiling were portraits large and small. Just above her right, she could make out one of a young man fitted up like a buccaneer, with a wild gleam in his eye.
“Captain James Hawkins Halstead,” Jean pronounced. “Thief, swindler, smuggler, slave trader.”
Next to the portrait of the pirate, there was one of a tall, buxom woman dressed all in black with a huge panther lying at her feet.
“Catherine Isabella Halstead,” continued Jean. “Blackmailer, harlot, murderess, exotic animal trainer. Died in the madhouse.”
Far above that there was a portrait draped in dark shadows. It seemed to be of a man, but all Ronnie could make out was a glint of red from what might have been medals on the figure’s chest. He was resting his right hand on what looked to be an ornate silver cane. Ronnie stood up on her tiptoes, trying to make out the details. “Hey, what’s this one holding? Is that a wol---“
“Here! Look at this one!” Jean tugged her away from her perusal and pointed out another portrait to their left. It was of an imperious judge in full Puritan regalia and a profile so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. “The Right Honorable Marcus Balfour St. Peter, who was anything but,” Jean smirked. “Witchfinder, peddler in flesh, drug addict.”
“Boy, I sure wouldn’t want to appear before him.” Ronnie shuddered dramatically, then looked at the portrait more closely. “Hmmmm, I’m noticing a definite family resemblance...here,” said Ronnie, pointing to the judge’s high aquiline nose.
“The St. Peter schnozz?” Jean grinned. “How sweet of you to notice. I’ll have you know that many, many years of careful inbreeding went into creating this splendid beak. Mock it at your peril!”
“I love your nose,” she said, laughing. “Even if I sometimes feel like tweaking it.” Then she did just that, trying to spin away before he could grab her.
“Why you little -“ Jean pulled her back into his arms, but just before he was about to kiss her, something caught Ronnie’s eye, freezing her attention.
“My god, who is that guy?” she said breathlessly. Slightly annoyed at his fiancé’s lack of focus, Jean turned to see which portrait had arrested her gaze.
“Ah. That would be my great great grand uncle, Roderick Charles St. Peter.”
Ronnie pulled away from Jean’s embrace and slowly approached the painting. Some trick of the light seemed to make this one particular picture glow. Jean followed behind her, their footsteps echoing in counterpoint down the passage until they stood in front of the ornately framed portrait. It was life-sized, of a tall, pale, lean-faced man in a lush, full-length, crimson frock coat with a high collar. His hair was white or nearly so, but his lips were full and red. A cruel mouth, but strangely sensual. It was the eyes, however, that were the figure’s most striking feature. Ice-blue, they seemed to bore right into the viewer’s soul. It was one of the oddest portraits Ronnie had ever seen, but also one of the most compelling. Strong emotion seemed to radiate from it.
Ronnie was stunned. “He looks…I don’t know…”
“Tortured? Haunted? Obsessed?” Jean asked.
“Yes. But there’s more there…”
“Story is he went insane, killed all the servants, walled up his wife in a tomb in the basement, then torched the place and almost burned it all down. Only the woman’s cat escaped alive. Luckily, it started raining before the fire spread or I’d be heir to a pile of ashes.”
“What’s that book he’s holding?” Ronnie pointed to a large black volume the figure was clutching. She could almost feel the taut strength in that grip, pressing the book tightly to him for all eternity, as if to keep it from flying away.
“Well, it seems to be your day for noticing odd tomes, doesn’t it?” Jean remarked dryly. “That book, my dear, is a mystery indeed. Legend has it that old Uncle Roddy was also a bit of a necromancer who wrote down everything he attempted, dabbling in the black arts. Which is probably the real reason the fire started, if you ask me. Probably left a brazier burning unattended all Michalmass Eve or something while he was off making notes. His book was never found – most likely burned up with him, too.“
“He has such beautiful hands.” Ronnie mused softly.
“So you dare admire another man’s hands, do you?” Jean grinned and slid his own hands around her waist, pulling her tight up against him. Ronnie giggled and squirmed, enjoying the game, but never taking her eyes off the portrait. Jean’s left hand began to slowly travel up her arm, then her shoulder, until he was stroking her neck. Ronnie sighed with pleasure and tilted her head back slightly. Then Jean whispered huskily into her ear, “The very hands he used to strangle his poor dear wife nearly to death – not quite – just enough to render her unconscious so he could lock her warm body in the crypt far faaar below.” Ronnie could feel Jean’s right hand moving downward, and she began to struggle in earnest.
“Jean, don’t you DARE tickle me,” she gasped.
“Far from where anyone would hear her screaaams… “
“Now stop it, no DON”T, I MEAN IT I –“
Suddenly, Ronnie let loose with a blood curdling shriek, and broke away, dropping to her knees in terror. Jean looked down at her in amazement.
“What the hell! I –“
Ronnie was shakily pointing at the portrait of Uncle Roderick.
“He…MOVED. I swear to God, Jean. He – THERE, see??”
As they both gaped in horror, the painting began to tremble and an unearthly groaning sound emanated from it. Then with a loud click, the portrait swung slowly open on creaking hinges to reveal a dark, stooped creature lit from behind with an unholy luminescence. Ronnie gave another ear-piercing shriek and reached up to clutch Jean’s arm as the figure lurched forward.
“Grant!” Jean was the first to recover from the butler’s sudden appearance. “What the hell are you doing there? You nearly gave us both a heart attack.”
“Many apologies sir,” gasped Grant, straightening up as he stepped into the gallery and closed the portrait shut. “But I had to find you quickly, so I used one of the secret passages and –“
“What is it, man? You look a fright. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Miss Megan, sir. We just got a call from the owner of the Slaughtered Lamb. There’s been an accident.”
L.A.G.
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