Chapter 2
Tracy sipped her coffee as birds chirped cheerily outside the window of the gallery. While she still felt more than a bit intimidated by the grandeur of her new home, she felt as she'd never tire of this view. The massive trees with their splendid sea of green gave way to the metallic blue ocean beyond. The rhythmic pounding of the surf combined with the birdsong had a calming effect.
She was jolted out of her reverie by the snarling of Dobermans. Straining on the leashes, mouths flecked with foam, they looked up at her with fury. The man holding their taut leashes was lean and regarded her with an unpleasant expression that was a mixture of contempt, amusement, and lust. Still shaken, she was startled by Carlotta. "More coffee, Mrs. Collins?" Tracy didn't answer; she peered back out the window. He uttered a command that was inaudible to her. Instantly, the dogs ceased their noise and were still, although they continued glare at her. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Collins?"
"There's someone down there staring at me. Who is it, Carlotta?"
"There's no one there."
Tracy turned her attention back to the window. Only the trees stared back. "There was a man with two black dogs."
"Oh Gerard. Gerard Stiles. My nephew. He's the caretaker-handyman. He keeps the horses too. I don't know what I'd do without him."
"Oh. I see. Well, it was just that those dogs …"
"Those dogs are very important to the security of the estate, madam." She pursed her lips and paused for a long moment to emphasize that the subject was closed. "Now is there anything I can get you?"
Tracy blushed, hoping she didn't seem as silly to Carlotta as she felt. "Oh no. Nothing. Everything is just fine."
Carlotta nodded curtly and took the tray back to the kitchen. She found Gerard filling his thermos with coffee. "Do you know what happened last night? " Carlotta did not deign to reply to his query. "Do you?!" Gerard's angular features were twisted with rage and anguish. Stubble from two days of neglect darkened his visage. He exposed tobacco- stained teeth to continue but was silenced by a wave of Carlotta's hand.
Carlotta's expression was even harder than usual. "Everything has changed. You must accept that now."
"I was good enough until he came around!"
Gerard's petulant tone irritated Carlotta. "Go to the stables. He'll be there soon to ride." Gerard hesitated. She continued to head off any more defiance. "I've told you that everything is different now!" Gerard turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
Cursing, he heard his dogs barking and growling with barely contained aggression at … him. Quentin was approaching the stables cautiously, his progress arrested by the two territorial canines. Gerard thought about setting them on him but feared the consequences. SHE would not be pleased. Not pleased at all. "Inside, boys." The dogs instantly obeyed his command, turning tail and disappearing into the kennel adjacent to the stable.
"I'd keep them chained if I were you." Quentin extended his hand, "I'm Mr. Collins." Gerard stared at the proffered hand, and regarded it the way he would a cobra. He swallowed his pride and shook his employer's hand."
Wanting to avoid small talk and the implied command about the dogs, he asked, "You ride well?"
"I used to when I was a kid. But it's been a long time. You'd better give me an easy one."
Gerard gestured to a large black stallion and forced a pleasant smile. "You ought to be able to handle this one."
Quentin patted him appreciatively, "A good-looking horse."
"Yeah, his name is Ulysses. Just give him his head, and you'd think you were in a rocking chair."
As Quentin mounted the horse, Gerard muttered, "I saw your wife today."
"Yes?"
Flustered, not wanting to betray interest and annoyed that he'd blurted out his thoughts, he stammered out, "She rides?" Quentin focused a long, questioning glance at him. "I, I said she rides, doesn't she?"
"Yes, but not today. I'll be back in few hours." With that, the horse turned, and they rode off on the path leading through the woods. Quentin's mount was proving to be more difficult than he'd been led to believe. A couple of times, he'd bucked a bit and Quentin had barely managed to keep his balance. Quentin surprised himself by matching the horse's aggression with equal force. He pulled back on the reins, forcing the horse's head to the side, exerting painful pressure on his mouth. He relaxed a bit; the horse continued to rebel. His head was jerked again to the side with more force than Quentin had intended. "You will obey me!" Again, Quentin was taken aback by the fury in his voice and the viciousness with which he flicked the reins. This time the horse submitted and ceased his efforts to throw him.
They had reached a truce and rode pleasantly for the next hour or so, meandering along the wooded paths. Quentin ceded control to the animal temporarily, allowing it to go where it pleased, confident that he could regain the upper hand anytime he wished. Again, he wondered where this confidence had originated. As a child, he'd ridden fairly well, but most of his mounts had been gentle mares or geldings. He'd handled this recalcitrant mount more like a pro and not like the out-of-practice amateur he was.
Off in the distance, he thought he heard the tolling of a bell. The sky appeared greyer, despite the fact that he felt the intense sun's rays pummeling him. They rode up to an old cemetery. As they made their way through, Quentin heard a harsh, grating voice intoning a eulogy. "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes."
The preacher was surrounded by mourners sheltering themselves under umbrellas. The reverend was a corpulent man with fleshy, sagging jowls. His unkempt hair was stringy and carelessly swept across his forehead. There was no hint of sorrow or compassion in his voice or manner. In fact, his manner seemed more appropriate for an angry sermon of censure.
"Oh Lord, we beseech you to have mercy on this sinner, for we all sin, knowing the mercy of our heavenly father. So we commend to him the flesh and spirit of Angelique Collins, beloved wife to Gabriel, loyal and loving sister-in-law to Laura." At the mention of the last name, a woman laughed, her eyes flashing with amusement at a private joke. Although she was lovely, it was obvious her looks were fading, and she was heading speedily into middle-age. Pasty white makeup had been liberally applied to hide age lines. These futile efforts had the opposite effect, calling attention to her inevitable decline. Her looks were also marred by an expression of disillusionment and bitterness that was permanently tattooed on her countenance. She continued to issue the bitterly triumphant laughter. The man near her was also blond. His mane of curly locks was wound even tighter than usual by the humidity provided by the driving rain. His shifty eyes darted back and forth between the woman and the other mourners. His even features were marred by uneasiness. He shot her a nervous, reproving glance and exerted minor pressure on her arm. She shot the fidgeting man a look of defiance and contempt and continued to giggle. The eulogizer raised his voice in an effort to drown her out, "Angelique Collins has departed this life for a far better one. A world without sorrow or pain."
The woman responded by increasing the volume and vigorousness of her laughter. Her hysteria produced cracks in her ghostly youth mask. The cackles were only silenced when the preacher glared at her disapprovingly. Their eyes locked for several seconds before she relented. "And so we commend her spirit to a just and loving God. Amen."
Most of the "mourners" appeared to be bored, unconcerned, or downright hostile to the dearly departed. The exceptions were a frail, thin child who was sobbing uncontrollably and a woman, most likely her mother, who was vainly trying to console her. The little girl held something lovingly in her hands. The other adults regarded her behavior with indulgent disapproval.
Quentin's attentions were jerked away from this scene as he heard his name called. His head swiveled in the direction of the caller. He'd not noticed that the path intersected with a road 20 yards or so away from the cemetery. The sunlight again shone brightly as he beheld the smiling, familiar face of Claire Jenkins waving to him out of the open window of her car. When he turned his attention back to the gravesite, all trace of the mourners had vanished and the clear inscription on the tombstone was now barely legible. With a bit of reluctance, he guided the horse toward the car to meet his best friend's wife.
Less than an hour later, Quentin was sitting in a cozy chair in one of the small cottages on the Collins estate. Claire and Alex Jenkins had been invited to stay in Collinwood, but Alex had replied that "Living in a place like that would give me the heebee jeebees. I write about ghosts; I don't particularly want to live with them." He also added that the privacy would give them time to work on their next novel. The cottage was intimate, comfortable, and relatively modern in its décor. Quentin felt as if he'd changed out of a tuxedo into well-worn street clothes. Although he'd felt very much at home in Collinwood, the more humble surroundings of the cottage were a welcome respite. He'd also not realized how incredibly tired he was. He wasn't convinced that Tracy was correct, that he'd been wandering about the house much of the evening. Either way though, he'd not slept well, or the chair he was sitting in would be perfect for a catnap.
"Imagine! Running down the Master of Collinwood!" Quentin turned his attention to Alex who was sitting in the chair adjacent to his. His craggy, good-natured face beamed at his friend. Alex was decidedly informal in his manner and appearance, in stark contrast to just about everything else at Collinwood.
"On his first day too, before he's even put out the rules of the manor," Quentin joked. Quentin's attention was diverted to a piece of art on the wall. It depicted an eye amidst various rays and blotches of color. "I see you've still got that crazy eye of mine."
"That's right, buddy. Whereever we go, that goes!" Alex flicked a stray lock of his wavy and slightly unkempt hair out of his eyes. "So how's life in the old castle? Have you seen Miss Drake smile yet?"
Claire entered the room. Her attire was more stylish than her husband's, and her golden hair never lacked for attention. She was petite but exuded a confidence that dared others to take her lightly. Her pert nature was emblazoned on her features. Her eyes usually twinkled mischievously but also hinted at a deep well of warmth and empathy. Her lips widened into a sardonic and slightly reproving grin. "She had no reason to smile at you, Alex. The first time he meets her, he asks her if the place is haunted." She winced at the memory of that awkward moment. They'd been warned that the locals were adamant in their refusal to discuss the recent tragedies at Collinwood with outsiders. Quentin had passed along the admonition his lawyers had given him. Alex had chosen to disregard it.
Quentin asked, "Is it?"
Claire focused intently on Quentin for a long moment. The question seemed a tad more serious than she'd expected. "Not according to her."
Alex laughed, "We'll have to go to the Blue Whale some night. There's a Captain Russell that will tell you a different story. It seems there's a beautiful young servant girl who roams the halls of Collinwood."
Quentin's expression lightened, "If she cleans well, we'll hire her."
"Time for lunch. What do you want, ham or tuna fish?"
"Both", Alex answered.
Claire frowned slightly, concerned about the slow but sure expansion of her husband's waistline, but she decided not to make an issue of it when Quentin answered, "The same." She exited with a laugh and a reproving glance at her husband.
"So my rich landlord who doesn't charge rent, how do you like the estate?"
Quentin, wanting to avoid the topic for now, changed the subject. "When did you and Claire get here?"
"About two weeks ago. I thought you two would never get here." When Quentin did not reply, a look of concern crossed Alex's face. "Hey, what's the matter? Is something wrong?" When Quentin shook his head in denial, Alex continued, "Bloodshot eyes, unsuitable pallor."
Quentin laughed and played along with the joke, "Well doc, I didn't sleep well last night. Funny thing about this place ... I keep imagining things."
"What do you mean, imagining things?"
"Oh, it's nothing, forget it."
"No, man." Alex forced a light look and smile, "Maybe I can use it. You know we're starting a new Gothic novel."
Quentin gave his friend a look that signaled the subject was closed, at least for now. "That reminds me: I have a library that's got to be full of material. Be my guest." Alex nodded his thanks and accepted Quentin's decision, for the moment at least.
After lunch, Quentin excused himself saying, "I need to stop procrastinating and get to work!" He returned to the main house and changed into some old clothes and gathered up his easel and paint kit. "Carlotta, I want to start work today. Can you suggest a good room?"
She nodded, "I think I know just the place," and motioned for him to follow her through several twisting corridors. "I'm sure you'll find it perfect." Quentin knew almost at once that she was leading him to the tower room. They made their way up the long, narrow staircase. Carlotta fumbled with the keys.
"Wait." Carlotta turned to regard him with a curious expression. "I have the strangest feeling I've been here before."
"How could you have been?"
"I couldn't have."
She turned her attention back to the lock and opened the door. When she entered, she moved to the side, affording Quentin an unobstructed view of the room. She'd told him it had been used for storage, so he'd expected musty boxes of old clothes, worn furniture, and perhaps, just perhaps, a treasure or two, well hidden among the bric-a-brac. What he saw evoked a smile of wonder and amazement. A myriad of paintings and sculptures decorated the circular room. "Well, does it still seem so familiar?"
"No," the lie troubled him. He did not feel at all guilty being untruthful to Carlotta. What concerned him was the fact that he felt the need for deception. In fact, he couldn't shake the déjà vu he'd felt ever since arriving in this house. He'd always had problems with directions, and yet he was easily navigating his own way through the maze of rooms and halls. His sudden expert handling of the horse also puzzled him. As out of practice as he was, he should have been thrown soon after mounting the animal. Instead, he'd handled him like a pro.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Collins. There is always a logical explanation for feelings like this. Will the room do?"
"Yes … Yes … it's fine. It's been used as a studio before?"
"Not in my time. If you need anything else, I'll be downstairs." As she turned to leave, a triumphant smile lit up her face. She turned for a moment and fixed her steely gaze on Quentin as he set up his easel and prepared to go to work. Wary of attracting his attention, she abruptly turned on her heel and left him to his work.
Quentin was ecstatic. The light was perfect, the ambiance was perfect, the view was, well, perfect. He had a mental image of a piece he'd been intending to create. It was a sequel of sorts to the "Crazy Eye" painting he'd given Alex. His short handtitle for the piece was "Who's Watching the Watcher?". A myriad of eyes would be seen observing the oblivious pair of orbs that had been the subject of the first work. On impulse, he dismissed the whole project. Here in the tower, it seemed to be juvenile and cliché. The tower afforded him an excellent view of the forest and the ocean beyond. Although he'd always considered landscapes to be boring subjects, he had the urge to bring this vista to life on canvas. And when he finished? Maybe he'd break another of Quentin Collins' taboos and paint a portrait of his lovely wife. He worked at a feverish pace for hours, beginning to create an accurate representation of the view from his window. On some level, he marveled at how the style and tone of his work had changed, but he did not let these questions and concerns interfere with what was important - the work.
The day passed in a blur of colors and strokes. When he emerged from the tower, dusk had settled over the great estate. He shook his head in amazement. He'd worked through the entire day and had been oblivious to the passage of time. He'd even labored through lunch, something he'd never done before. Famished, he made his way to the pantry for dinner and decided to call it an early night.
Quentin, clad in pajamas, climbed into bed and cuddled up with Tracy. "I can't tell you how happy I am with the tower room. It's absolutely perfect."
"I know it. We're going to have a long and happy life here." She turned her head to kiss him again. "Good night, darling." She turned to her side and closed her eyes. It was only a minute or two before Quentin heard the regular, rhythmic pattern of her breathing, indicating she was already asleep. Quentin, feeling totally at peace, followed her moments later.
Hours later, he abruptly opened his eyes. The glow from the tower beckoned to him, and arose to answer the summons.
