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Chapter 8

Elizabeth

Icy rain beat fitfully at the library windows. Occasional flakes of white splattered against the panes, dissolving into puddles of water that gathered at the mullions, then streamed downward.

I was alone in the house and glad of it, for in this very masculine room on the ground floor of the southeast tower I didn't have to worry about Stanley McCollum's continued pettiness, about the conflicting emotions I felt each time I thought about John. I didn't have to worry about David and Eliza's still incomplete story, or why I, who had never had a moment of drama in my life, had been chosen to relive a life that seemed to have been steeped in tragedy. Here in this room, I could simply surrender to the power that had been David Richards.

The day before, four men had carried a massive walnut rolltop desk downstairs, and placed it against the south wall, and we had hung brown velvet draperies over fourteen-foot-tall windows. Every box tagged for the library and every other piece of furniture I thought might belong to this room had been piled in the center of it the night before, and I had spent the day unpacking, arranging, and cleaning.

The drapes were open now, drawn back against the stone walls to admit as much of the weak afternoon light as possible, and a fire glowed from the hearth. But as the storm increased in intensity the room grew difficult to read the titles of the books I had piled onto the shelf beside me.

I paused, unwilling to climb down from the ladder until I finished with the books I had brought up, and looked over the room. Overall, I was pleased with my work, although I had not found any of the room's accessories, and I wished I knew how David had arranged the furniture, just as I wished I knew how he had arranged the hundreds of books now resting in stacks of rough groupings I had created as I unpacked them. I now understood how Martha had felt the day she cleaned my room, because I could almost describe what drove me as obsession: obsession that I be the one to restore this room, and that I do it properly.

With a sigh, I turned back to the books. For the most part, David's collection delighted me. I had chosen to major in English because I loved books—old, new, and in any stage in between—and the notion that their contents opened new pathways to anyone willing to step between their covers. Also, if I were willing to teach grammar as well as literature and if I were willing to teach in an inner-city school, I could almost guarantee I'd have a job.

I recognized many of the titles in David's library, now classic, beautifully bound volumes, few of them bearing printing dates later than 1900. But these with which I now worked were unfamiliar, both titles and authors, and delving into them, I learned that their subject matter was unfamiliar, too.

For some reason David Richards had amassed an extensive collection of what I could describe only as metaphysics. Nineteenth century and earlier metaphysics. I, in my ignorance, had supposed the New Age movement to be the product of a much later generation.

Not knowing where else to turn, I had asked God for answers but had received none. Now, it seemed, I had been provided with volumes, thousands of pages, of answers. All I had to do was find the right questions.

I picked up a book, peered at the barely visible title on its spine, and positioned it on the shelf just as light flooded the room. I whirled around, almost losing my balance on the ladder.

John stood by the light switch holding a mug of steaming coffee in each hand.

Grateful for the distraction of having to regain my balance, I used the next few moments to try to bring my thoughts under control. Why was he here? I turned my back to him and began worrying with the books to hide my confusion, but one slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

John walked across the room, set the mugs on a side table, and picked up the book. His right eyebrow lifted slightly. "The Secret Doctrine? Helena Blavatsky? Don't tell me King David was a theosophist?" He glanced at the titles on the shelf where I was working, and his eyebrow quirked even higher. "Or a spiritualist?"

I had no clear-cut understanding of those terms, but I did understand the derision in John's voice. I said nothing.

"I don't remember these books," he said, running a finger along the spines of those already in place.

"That's not surprising," I told him, and gestured to another shelf. "Do you remember Hawthorne or Emerson, either?"

"No." He grinned then, and walked back to the table where the coffee waited. "The truth is, I spent as little time as possible in this room. As a child, I found it extremely oppressive.

"You might as well come down," he added. "I'm staying until we finish our coffee."

I repressed an oath but climbed down from the ladder.

"What are you doing here?" I asked pointedly. Spying for McCollum? I wanted to ask. But I knew that wasn't right. John didn't work for McCollum; McCollum worked for John.

John held on to his maddening grin. "We're in for some bad weather. I thought you might appreciate knowing in time to put in some extra supplies."

I softened, a little. That was a kind gesture on his part, no matter what his underlying reasons were. I took the coffee he handed me, appreciating its warmth in the room I suddenly realized was cold.

"Thank you, John, but you didn't need to make the trip. Martha has gone to Richards Spur for groceries." And to mail my carefully composed letters contained.

"I know," he said.

I looked at him over the edge of the cup.

"I saw her in town."

His eyes darkened. I saw the frosty gust of his breath as his laugh echoed around me. "If you could see your face . . ."

Anger shot through me. How dare he laugh at me?

"You knew there was no reason to come here, yet you came anyway?" I asked. "You walked into my house without knocking? You made yourself at home in my kitchen? And now you're laughing at me? What do you think gives you the right to do that?"

His laughter died and, at last, so did his grin. "I've never had to ask permission to enter this house," he said. "I was working a few miles from here. Yes, I saw Martha in town but I decided to come up anyway. I was cold and I was wet. I knocked on the kitchen door. No one answered. I opened the door and called out. No one answered. The kitchen was warm. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I poured you a cup of coffee. And I brought it to you.

"Now tell me, Cousin, just what have I done to spark that kind of anger?"

What had he done? What had John actually done? Besides threaten this house. Besides threaten my own newly found faith in what was happening to me by the impossible attraction I felt for him. Why had I so quickly identified him with Owen Markham? Did I really have anything to base that identification on other then John's own denial, his hatred, of David? "Nothing, John," I murmured. "I . . . Nothing."

He wrapped both hands around his cup, warming them. "Elizabeth, you saw me for the first time at the bank. Before that we hadn't even spoken to each other. But since the minute we met, it's been as though you were fighting me. Why? What did I do in no more than thirty seconds to irritate you so much?"

How much could I tell him? How much did I understand myself? Not much. Not yet.

I searched for safe, sensible reasons. "You were with Stanley McCollum," I said slowly. "That's bad enough. You mocked me. You threatened me. You looked at me . . . " I drew a deep breath. I'd never forget that look. "And the way you looked at me . . . appraised me, disregarded me and my feelings, and told me that you felt you could control me."

"In thirty seconds?" he asked cautiously. "Are you sure that's all?"

I nodded abruptly and stared into my cup, not daring to speak or look at him.

"Cousin, I don't know what you knew about us when you came here, but you ought to realize by now that I do have some control over you— not because I want it but because I am who I am.

"As for appraising you, why should I be different from any other man in the county? You're certainly the best-looking stranger around.

"And," he added confidentially, "I've been told I'm the most eligible man in three counties."

"Why, you . . ." I spluttered, jerking my head up to look at him.

Which apparently was the effect he'd been aiming for. He laughed again, softly, and without much humor. "It's not fair to tease you," he said finally. "You rise to the bait too fiercely."

He shook his head. "I may not be your only living relative, but I'm the only one in this area. And you're the only family I have here, too. Truce?"

I was drained by the encounter, frustrated and confused, and something within me nagged of the inevitability of his getting what he wanted. To fight now was senseless.

"Truce," I said, sighing.

"Good." He reached over and patted my hand. "We have to keep up appearances. The gossips have already paired us off."

I jerked my hand away from his and stared sharply at him. His grin was back, softening his features. I wanted to cry, but a part of me wanted to laugh with him, to join in this game he insisted upon playing, regardless of the outcome.

"But not victory," I whispered.

"No." Once again he became serious. "I'm not sure either one of us can really win."

 

John wanted to see the house. Puzzled, and more than a little reluctant, I led him through the lower rooms and up the main stairs. He paused at the place where the gate had been and ran his fingers over the now restored wood, but he didn't say anything.

Feeling strangely defensive, I followed him while he wandered, aimlessly it seemed, through the halls of the upper floor, peering into those rooms that still held shrouded furniture and boxes, glancing at the shattered doorjamb of the nursery but not attempting to enter, to my room, where he stopped near the wing chair and studied the room.

"You've done a remarkable job," he said at last. "This room . . ." he ran his hand over the back of the chair, "this room is just as I remember it."

"It is?" I asked, surprised at the approval I thought I heard in his voice.

"When I was a child," he told me, "I used to practice on the Steinway downstairs. I don't know that it made my playing any better, but at least my father didn't have to put up with the noise. I spent every minute I could in this house. Now I know that I was allowed free rein of the house because I was a Richards, and my father's son, but then I didn't understand why we couldn't live here, why we had to wait for some as yet unknown female Richards to inherit. But I suppose you must have wondered the same thing. Why this house stood vacant with just a caretaker when there were heirs to the rest of the estate."

"No, I didn't," I told him. "I didn't know it really existed until my grandmother died this fall."

"That's strange," he said, looking at me with the same questioning expression I had noticed about him before. "When I first heard of you, I imagined you as a little girl being groomed to take your rightful place when you came of age, being force-fed stores of David Richards and his castle with your peanut butter sandwiches."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you." I wandered to the window. The snow fell steadily now, large wet flakes that curtained the view and made lacy patterns on the enameled green of the magnolia outside the window. I felt as though we were shut off from the rest of the world. An aura of unreality surrounded us, and it seemed not at all strange to want to talk with this man.

"I was always drawn to the history of the Five Civilized Nations, the Choctaw in particular, because it seemed that they were the most . . . courageous . . . of the five. I found a picture of David Richards in a history book when I was twelve and felt that I ought to know him. I pretended we were related, because of our names, but I didn't know we were until just after my grandmother died.

"The books I read didn't devote much space to his personal life, and Gran, my mother's mother, didn't know or didn't want to tell me very much, but it seems right that he had a home like this, and it seems to me that I have always loved the view from this window.

"I even—" I broke off, bewildered by the realization that I had been willing to say far too much.

John didn't seem to notice. "What about your father?" he prompted gently. "Didn't he—"

"I don't remember my parents. My father was a race car driver. Gran didn't like him; he was 'irresponsible.' He and my mother were killed when a truck ran into their sports car. I don't think Gran ever forgave him. I know that other than her bitterness about his taking my mother from her, she only told me what she absolutely had to about my father, and nothing about his family, even to the point of lying to me."

"And now you . . ." He hesitated, watching the swirling snow. "And now you drive a sports car yourself."

I felt a bittersweet smile quirking my lips at his question, even as I wondered what he had started to say. "It's hardly that," I told him. "Although Gran wouldn't know the difference. No, I don't think she'd forgive me for the car any more than she would forgive me for being here, for abandoning her like she felt my mother had."

The silence deepened around us in the darkening room.

"I've always loved this view, too," John admitted.

I watched his familiar profile as he gazed at the falling snow, and a sweet, sad yearning began within me. I longed to touch his face.

I shoved my hands into my sweater pockets and snapped myself back to reality. I studied him a moment longer. I didn't want to be indebted to him, but he was the only one I knew who was familiar with the house. And he had been the one to call the truce, although I had no idea how far the truce would carry either of us.

"John? Will you help me?"

He turned without speaking, the questions back in his eyes.

"Will you tell me how the house was, before? Will you show me how the rooms were arranged?"

There was just a suggestion of a lifted eyebrow, a twitch near his jaw. "But you're doing well without my help."

"Not really. And there's so much I can't find, so much that seems incomplete."

I had his full attention.

"Such as?"

"Such as the desk accessories, the china and silver, the decorations that would complete the rooms. Things I feel should be here." I indicated the bare spot on the bedroom wall and the real reason I asked. "Even the painting that belongs there."

Again I saw the barely perceptible twitch near his jaw. "You haven't found them?"

"If I had, would I be asking for your help?"

He studied me for a long time before speaking. "Yes," he said finally. "You should know. Come with me."

He took me by the hand, back through the hall, up to the room where the draperies were stored. He went to the wall beneath the stairs leading up to the roof. It, like the rest of the room, was paneled by wide cedar planks marked at regular intervals by narrower vertical battens.

"During the Civil War," he said, "the Creek and Cherokee Nations were occupied by Union troops. A number of refugees fled south. Some of them, unfortunately, stayed after the war, starving, and stealing what they could find. It was two years before the government had any control of the situation. Then, later, there were white outlaws who hid in the nation to avoid capture and prosecution.

"This had to have been built during the first part of construction."

He ran his fingers along the edge of a batten and lifted it on hidden hinges to one side, revealing a lock in the underlying board.

"When I helped to close the house, I put the things I considered most valuable in here."

"You helped?" I asked, remembering the jumbled piles of possessions.

"Naturally." He took a ring of keys from his pocket, slipped one from the ring, and handed it to me.

I looked at it suspiciously. "Why do you have this?"

"I stole it," he said simply. "Over twenty years ago when I first found the room, I stole the key from the caretaker. He didn't know what it fit; he probably never missed it."

"And no one ever asked about it?"

John hesitated. "No one but I knew it existed. Until now."

I turned the key over in my fingers. "You don't like me—"

"That's not—"

"In any event, you don't want me here. You've made that more than clear. Why are you giving this to me now?"

He put his hand on my shoulder but remained silent until I looked up at him. "Let's just say that I want to even things up a little."

I stepped away from the physical contact, my suspicions growing. "In what way?"

John dropped his hand to his side. "Stan McCollum has had his attorneys examining the trust agreement since shortly after you arrived. He's decided that restoration is not provided for in the agreement, and he's cutting of all but maintenance funds at the end of this month."

"He can't do that!"

"Yes," John said. "He can. Open the door, Elizabeth."

I was trembling with anger. "Is there going to be a constant battle for the rest of the year?"

"Probably."

"Is this part of your bribe, then? Look what you can have, Elizabeth, if you just give up and let me win? See what you stand to lose if you fight?"

He was angry, probably as angry as I was, and no doubt, in his eyes, with better reason. To my chagrin, he controlled his anger better than I did. He stared to say something, stopped, and then said very distinctly, "Open the door, Elizabeth."

The door opened outward on hinges hidden by another batten, a heavy metal door disguised by the cedar panels that covered it. Inside was total blackness.

John took a book of matches from his pocket, struck one, stepped inside the door, fumbled with something, then held a lighted candle in a holder toward me.

"Won't you come in, Miss Richards?" he asked, giving me a mock bow. Belatedly I remembered our truce, the one John seemed determined to maintain.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, John lighted another candle and walked farther into the shelf-lined room. Cartons in neat stacks filled the shelves, with only glimpses of cedar-lined walls visible between them.

I visualized the house, trying to see the room from the outside. "I would never have found it," I said finally.

You have to be a child, playing where you're not supposed to, to find anything this well hidden," he told me.

He walked to the boxes and scanned the labels. "These are the library things." He pointed to a shelf and walked on. "Here are the china, the crystal, and the silver."

"The painting?" I asked hesitantly.

He turned to me, and the flickering light from his candle cast odd patterns of shadows across his face. "I believe you'll find something acceptable near the door."

To the right of the door stood what appeared to be a cloth-draped chest. When I lifted drape, I found a wooden rack holding framed paintings. I knelt beside it, holding my candle close to the first canvas, a beautifully executed landscape. I searched for the artist's signature.

"Why, it's a Stephen Ward." I could only guess at the value of the painting. Ward was considered one of the finest nineteenth century western artists. His work, though different in emphasis, was ranked with that of Russell and Remington.

I pulled the painting forward and looked at the next one. "So is this," I said, scrambling to my feet and pulling that one forward. "And the next."

I turned to John. "They all are," he said. "It's the most extensive Ward collection I know of, from his earliest work on."

"But they should be in a museum," I protested. "Not locked up in the dark."

"Once they are yours, you can do what you want with them." He paused, and I could have sworn it was for dramatic effect. "Until then, I'd leave them where they are."

I thought his words and his emphasis strange, but I turned back to the paintings, looking through them for the one I felt I must recognize. "It isn't here," I said, more to myself than to him.

"What isn't?"

"The one for my room. It isn't here." Surely he would know. "Where is it, John?"

He took my candle from me and placed both of them on the table near the door.

"Are you positive?" he asked, looking into my eyes.

I nodded dumbly, disappointment washing through me with the unreasonable intensity that so many of my emotions now held.

John raised his hands, touching, smoothing, and then lifting my hair to the top of my head. His eyes were black in the flickering light and gave no clue to his thoughts as I stared helplessly up at him.

"I can't help you," he said reluctantly.

I felt his hand tightening in my hair as he bent toward me. I couldn't move; I could barely breathe as he bent closer.

"I can't help myself." With his other arm, he pulled me to him as his mouth claimed mine. With the first touch of his lips I felt myself falling into an abyss of longing, a longing John shared. His lips became more insistent and, reluctantly but unable to stop, I responded to that longing and to him. Eventually, it was John who pulled away, because God help me, I couldn't.

He gathered me to him in an imprisoning embrace, my face buried in the rough suede of his vest, and I leaned against him helplessly while trying to sort out the need that raged within.

I pushed away from him and found my voice. "You'd better go," I said, but the indignation I tried for sounded more like a plea.

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Framed