(2)
After spending an informative half an hour with Angelique, who seemed only too eager to answer his questions about the Collins family (though with a sly coyness that set off a few alarm bells in the back of his head), Ryou had returned to the inn for his rented car. Following the directions Darla had given him, he had no problems finding Collinwood.
Now, he stood before the sprawling old mansion (forty rooms, according to Angelique) and wondered if he was going to regret having come here. His curiosity was piqued, however, and he knew he would never be content if he left it unsatisfied. He would always wonder about this part of his family, his heritage. His mind had been made up long ago, when he first decided to come to Collinsport.
He had to know.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the imposing double doors and waited. Just as he was beginning to wonder if anyone had heard the door knocker, one of the doors swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman with her mousy brown hair pulled back in a severe bun. She eyed him like he was something smelly she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.
"Yes? Can I help you?" The curl of her upper lip suggested that the correct answer was "no, thank you."
Ryou steeled his resolve. "I'm expected for lunch...eon with Mr. Quentin Collins."
She grimaced. "I suppose you'd better come in then. I'll let Mr. Collins know his guest has arrived."
Shaking her head, she pivoted on her heel and stalked off without another word. Ryou supposed he was lucky she hadn't left him standing on the doorstep. Left to his own devices, he peered around the foyer, taking everything in.
Dark wood paneling and a flagstone floor made the room seem formal and not very welcoming. Tall iron torchiers stood on each side of the wide front doors. Opposite them, a second set of double doors guarded the entry into the house proper. On Ryou's right, a wooden staircase led up to a narrow landing beneath stained glass windows that, despite the bright sunlight outside, somehow contrived to barely lighten the gloomy atmosphere. There was a large portrait of a stern looking man, probably a Collins ancestor on one wall. With nothing better to do, Ryou wandered over to give it a closer look.
The man in the portrait had a sallow complexion, as if drained of blood, piercing dark eyes, and dark hair. His clothing was old-fashioned in the extreme, lending credence to Ryou's conjecture that this was a Collins ancestor. The ruffled cuffs, fancy cravat, and silver-headed cane made him think 18th-century or earlier (Ryou wasn't exactly an expert on historical clothing, but he had seen a few costume dramas in his day; Amane had been a big fan of the genre). A distinctive signet ring graced the man's forefinger, where his hand rested on the curve of the wolf's head that formed the handle of the cane.
"I see you've found Barnabas," said a feminine voice from behind him.
Ryou started, not having heard anyone approaching. Turning, he saw an older woman, her blonde hair fading gracefully to white and her slim body straight and tall despite her age, standing at the foot of the stairs. She was dressed in an expensive looking silk pantsuit and tasteful gold jewelry. She gave him a tight-lipped smile as she moved to join him before the portrait.
"Barnabas Collins," she said, with a gesture at the painting. "A distinguished ancestor and the son of the man who built this moldy old pile."
"Thank you for telling me." His genuiness seemed to catch her off-guard. He extended his hand. "I'm Ryou Bakura."
As if on auto-pilot, she shook his hand. "Carolyn Stoddard." Then she appeared to make a connection from his name to his presence in her house, and she added, "You're the guest Cousin Quentin is expecting!"
"I suppose I am." He ducked his head, feeling a bit embarrassed and not entirely sure why.
Carolyn nodded and her smile held a hint more warmth. "Well, then we should let him know you're here."
"I think someone's already gone to do so..."
"Mrs. Garrett?" She wrinkled her nose, for a moment the mischievous expression making her look like a much younger woman. "We'll be lucky if she actually finds him to tell him, then. Come, we'll get you settled in the drawing room and then I'll find Quentin myself."
"Oh, I shouldn't want to be a bother-"
"Don't be silly." Her hand on his elbow steered him toward the second set of double doors. "Just through here..."
A moment later and Ryou found himself seated before a large fireplace in which a cozy fire burned, staring wide-eyed at the doors through which Carolyn Stoddard had vanished on her self-appointed mission to locate Quentin Collins. The woman was clearly a force of nature; he barely remembered consenting to follow her before she had had him seated on one of the sofas, offered him a drink (which he declined), and swept back out the doors, closing them behind her.
Left to his own devices once more, he shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and dared to take a look around at his new surroundings. If the foyer had been impressive, it was nothing compared to the drawing room. Barnabas' father had apparently subscribed to the 'large and oppressive' school of architecture.
he theme of dark wood and soaring ceilings had been carried over into the drawing room. One wall was dominated by the fireplace, a marble monstrosity capped by a heavy wooden mantle which held silver candlesticks and other colonial looking bric-a-brac. A large oil landscape painting in somber tones completed the picture. On the short wall to the left of the double doors sat a heavy wooden writing desk, definitely antique, which held a few thick and dusty books, an ancient telephone (it had a cord!), and more bric-a-brac. The remaining furniture echoed the desk: all dark, heavy pieces that looked as if they had been fashionable about a century ago, which was possibly when they had been brought into the room. On the wall opposite the fireplace, a tall console held a tray of crystal decanters and glasses. Behind the sofa he was perched on, a piano sat in front of tall windows that reached nearly to the ceiling on either side of a pair of French doors. From his seat, he could just make out a hint of stone terrace and dreary winter garden peeping through between the heavy drapes.
Just as he was trying to decide if he were brave enough to get up and have a look outside, the double doors opened with a faint creak of unoiled hinges and an elderly man with a cane stepped into the room. He fixed Ryou with a distracted, and rather irritated, glare from light-colored eyes.
"And who might you be?" he asked without preamble in a clipped, patrician accent.
Ryou, who had risen automatically out of the politeness drilled into him as a child, took an involuntary step back at the vitriol in the other man's voice.
"Erm, Ryou, sir," he managed to stammer out. "Ryou Bakura."
"What sort of name is that?" the man snapped, his gimlet glare intensifying. The hand holding the cane tightened so much that the knuckles turned white from his grip.
"I... erm, I..." Ryou floundered, wondering if the man was going to take a swipe at him with the cane. He certainly seemed to be considering it, if his thunderous expression were any indicator.
"Come on, boy, speak up!" He stalked toward Ryou, managing to look quite threatening despite his advanced age. "Who are you and what're you doing in my drawing room?"
"Uncle Roger!" Carolyn swept back into the room through the open doors, one hand coming up to rest on the man's arm and steer him gently away from Ryou. "Is that any way to speak to a guest?"
"Guest?" Roger sounded revolted by the very suggestion. "I certainly didn't invite him."
"No, but Cousin Quentin did."
Some of the tension bleeding out of his posture, Roger snorted. "Well, that explains it."
Carolyn patted his arm. "Now, Uncle Roger, there's no need to be rude." She glanced at Ryou, that tight smile re-appearing on her lips. "Mr. Bakura, I see that you've met my uncle, Roger Collins. You'll have to forgive his manners, or lack of them. He's in a bit of a mood, it seems."
The old man swatted at her with his free hand. "Don't scold me! I remember when you were a moody teenager, Kitten. Your mother used to despair of your manners on a daily basis."
Ryou nearly boggled at the idea of anyone daring to call Carolyn Stoddard "kitten," but she took it in stride. Maybe she was accustomed to the nickname.
Ignoring Roger, she focused her attention on Ryou. "Mrs. Garrett has informed Cousin Quentin of your arrival. He'll be joining us, shortly."
Roger snorted again and wandered toward the bar set up that Ryou had noticed earlier. Carolyn pursed her lips at him but said nothing as Roger poured himself a few fingers of dark liquid from one of the decanters. He sipped at it before fixing Ryou with a judgmental gaze.
"Exactly how do you know our cousin, Mr. Bakura?"
"Oh, I... erm, I don't, actually." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling incredibly foolish and out of his depth. "I received a note from him this morning, asking me to have lunch with him."
Now, both Roger and Carolyn were watching him with narrowed eyes.
"Are you in the habit of accepting luncheon invitations from perfect strangers, Mr. Bakura?" Roger asked sourly.
I am when I want an excuse to visit the house where my mother spent part of her childhood, Ryou thought, but managed just not to say. Aloud, he said, "It seemed quite kind of him. And I admit that I was hoping to speak to some of the family."
"Oh?" Carolyn arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow at him. "And why is that?"
Taking a deep breath, Ryou steeled himself for the confession he was about to make. He never got the chance, however, as another voice stole the words from his lips.
"He's Amy's son."