Chapter 4

The direct sunlight assaulted him. After a long struggle to ignore the offending light and heat, he surrendered. As he arose, he considered drawing the drapes, but by the time he got to the window and realized how late it was, he decided to get dressed and face the day. Despite all the inspiration he'd felt in his new home, he had gotten precious little actually done. The tower was littered with sketches and ideas but no firm starts.

Once dressed, he made his way downstairs and was mildly surprised to find that Tracy was not in any of her usual haunts. He heard faint voices making their way through the open window. When he exited the house, he saw Tracy and Claire. Claire had pulled her car up to the entrance. "Good morning, sleepyhead," Tracy admonished him as she opened the car door.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"We're going to town," Claire informed him. "It's about time I showed her the shops."

Tracy smiled, "Want to come?"

"No, I can't. I've got to start doing some work. Do you realize we've been here for a week now?"

"Can I help it if you sleep away the day? OK. Do good work; I'll see you later." He leaned and kissed her through the open window. A moment later, they drove off.

Quentin decided to walk around the perimeter of the house and enter through the back. It wasn't exactly a shortcut to the tower, but it was more scenic. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something dangling from a massive tree, the same one so prominently visible from the gallery. For a split second, he saw, or thought he saw, the hanging woman he'd spied on his first day at Collinwood. A moment later, a child about 10 years old, clutching a baby doll and screaming was visible from the window of one of the second story rooms in the mansion. She looked directly at the form dangling from the tree. When Quentin looked back, he expected the figure to be gone, but it was still there, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. When he glanced over his shoulder up at the window, the little girl was gone, and the phantom of the suspended body had vanished as well.

Quentin dashed in the house, expertly navigating the maze of corridors to the room he'd seen from the outside. Toys were neatly arranged around the colorful room. Carlotta was standing near a child's four-poster bed, arranging the stuffed animals that reclined on the pillow. Mild curiosity was etched on her features as she witnessed him dash to the window, peering out. "I was outside."

"I know. I saw you from the window."

Quentin regarded her suspiciously, "But I didn't see you. I saw a little girl, holding a doll.' He ignored Carlotta's bewildered expression. "This was a child's room." It was not a question.

"Yes, it was Mrs. Stoddard's when she was a little girl." Her smile was full of warmth and reassurance. "It must have been a trick of the light," she asserted reasonably.

"Yes, it must have been," Quentin conceded, not quite convinced. "Well, I'd better get back to work." He turned and headed toward the tower.

Claire guided the car down the narrow, winding, one-way streets, praying for a parking space, "So everything is perfect?"

"Yes," Tracy answered in a tentative tone.

"It isn't perfect?" She offered a prayer of thanks and turned into a spot that was not terribly far from their destination.

Tracy paused for a bit, considering her answer. She closed her door, "Well, it is, but I'm a little concerned about Quentin. I don't think he's getting a lot of work done."

"What's he doing?" As they walked, they glanced halfheartedly at the various shops. Some offered the latest fashions, others, antiques, and the rest were an assorted mix of just about everything. She made a mental note to come back to some of them later.

"It's not that he doesn't try. He goes to the tower every day, but not much really happens."

"Is he worried about it?"

"No, I don't think so. But sometimes he seems so far away. It's hard to know what he's thinking."

"You know that's what I felt when I first met him in Paris. He was so super moody. He and Alex always connected, but I spent the first month just trying to figure him out. Those eyes always seem to see so much, and then everything becomes a kind of private thing. But that's what's so great about him. Don't you like a dark, brooding man of mystery?"

"Yes," both women tried in vain to maintain a serious composure and failed miserably, collapsing into laughter. It subsided as they entered the boutique Claire had wanted to show Tracy. The wares on display were a mixture of the latest conservative fashions, more mod styles, and some vintage clothing. A foppishly, flamboyantly dressed man greeted them with an easy smile. His light brown, curly locks were reflected in the sunlight that streamed through the open window. He had sensitive features that were not quite feminine. It was impossible to tell if his quick smile was genuine or manufactured in the hopes of making a big sale.

"Hi, Gregory, I'm back."

"And I have a little mattress-ticking jumper you'll live in for the rest of your life," he exclaimed, pointing at a rack with a delicate forefinger.

Claire smiled indulgently, "Alex won't let me wear those knickers. He said if had wanted to live with an 1890s newsboy he'd have found one."

Gregory held out his hands, admitting defeat, "God knows where. Obviously he has no sense of style, chic. Come to my house next week for a drink and wear them. He'll adore them."

"He'll adore those drinks. This is Tracy Collins."

Gregory bowed graciously, "The lady of the manor? Welcome."

"Hi. This makes me feel like I'm back in New York."

"Oh, do I have something for you! It's madness, it's so perfect." The dress he whipped out was an insane collection of garish colors in a floral pattern that Tracy thought would indeed be perfect for her, if she contemplated moving to a commune. "Could it be more you?"

"It's very me, but it's completely un-Quentin," she stated diplomatically in a tone that indicated the subject was closed.

"The husband, darling?"

Claire had been wandering about the shop aimlessly while her friend and Mr. Gregory chatted. She spied an English riding outfit on a mannequin. "That's Quentin!"

"Oh, he'd never wear that," Tracy protested.

"I'm sure he'd look marvelous in it," Gregory asserted.

"Gregory, wrap it up. We'll take it," Claire ordered.

Tracy started laughing at both the thought of Quentin wearing it and Claire's opinion that it was perfect for him. She decided to acquiesce to her friends' suggestion. She wanted to see the expression on Quentin's face when he saw it. "All right, but only if we can return it."

Quentin snorted in frustration. The texture wasn't right; the composition wasn't right, nothing about the damned thing was right. He thought he might do better if he repositioned his easel and changed position. Perhaps a slight change in the lighting would help. He moved a trunk, planning to plant the easel in its spot. The movement revealed a hidden cupboard that had probably not seen the light of day in years, if not decades. He opened the panel and found several canvases. They had two things in common. They were all portraits of Angelique and were all inscribed Charles Collins. The most interesting was an unfinished work in which Angelique reclined seductively on a bed of roses. She was gazing at something. Exactly what would always remain a mystery. That portion of the piece was unfinished. The inscription read, "Charles Collins, 1810."

Suddenly, the painting retreated from his sight. He was on the daybed with Angelique, clothed as she was in the picture, in a thin, almost translucent gown that left little to the imagination. He held her close, eyes closed, reveling in the scent of her lilac perfume. He pulled her in for a passionate embrace. Eventually, she pulled away and fixed her almost hypnotic gaze on him. "You must finish the picture," she ordered.

"Why?"

"You must finish it because when you do, you will give me the greatest gift of all. I know you merely planned it to torture her, but that's not enough. My darling, you must bring the painting to life, Charles." He nodded as she continued, "We are in each other's souls, Charles. We can't escape it." Their next kiss was interrupted by a pounding on the door. Angelique's gaze set fire to his soul, "Bring the painting to life, Charles, promise me!"

The banging continued, "Charles, I want to talk to my wife." Charles and Angelique continued to gaze into each other's eyes, hoping he would go away, as he had on other occasions. "I know you're in there! Now open the door!"

Charles arose with a sigh and limped to the door, speaking through it, "More of your dreary moralizing? You try my patience, brother."

"For the last time, open the door!"

Resigned, Angelique said, "Let him in."

Charles pushed the door open a crack revealing a weakly handsome man with blond, curly locks. On some level, the part of him that was Quentin recognized him as the man who was with Laura at the funeral. "I've come for my wife, Charles."

"Well, brother, you've suddenly become a man." Charles turned to Angelique, "Will you take the credit for that my dear?"

Her tinkling laugh provoked a look of rage and fury on her husband's face. Taking advantage of Charles' momentary distraction, he savagely pushed at the door, knocking Charles backward, nearly off his feet. Charles compensated and remained standing as the reverend and four other men pushed their way in. Angelique arose, her expression registering alarm. Charles positioned himself between her and the attacking men. Two of them maneuvered themselves behind him and pinned his arms back. "Leave her alone, Strack! I'm warning you! Gabriel, have you lost your mind?" Gabriel stared blankly back at him; his rage now diffused, he appeared indecisive. Charles turned his attention to the men who were holding him, "Tom …Ward …" They avoided eye contact and said nothing.

Strack was advancing on Angelique who was crouching backward in an attitude that was similar to that of a feline anticipating an attack. Strack paused for a moment, considering the blazing fury in her eyes. He motioned to the other two men, "Take her!" Charles struggled as they rush forward obediently. Angelique lashed out with a graceful catlike swipe and viciously clawed the face of the larger of the two men. Both recoiled, momentarily intimidated.

Angelique's voice was resigned but full of menace, "Don't any of you touch me. I'll come with you, but don't any of you touch me!" She spat out the last two words.

Strack blinked; annoyed that he'd briefly lost the upper hand. Summoning an authoritative tone, he ordered, "Come with us, Angelique Collins!"

Abruptly, Quentin's perspective returned to the present. Dusk had settled in and he stood alone in the semidarkness. "Gabriel … Angelique … that was her funeral I saw. What happened here? What?" The tower room offered no further answers so he packed up his kit, grabbed the unfinished portrait, and headed downstairs.

He was greeted by Tracy who regarded him with a reproachful look. "Did you forget that Claire and Alex are having dinner with us?"

"No, I just lost track of time."

She eyed him intently for a few seconds before admonishing, "Well, they're here." With that, she turned toward the gallery with Quentin in tow.

Claire and Alex greeted him warmly. "What's that?" Alex asked, pointing to the unfinished painting.

"Oh, I found some paintings in the tower. They were painted by an ancestor of mine, one Charles Collins. This one's unfinished." He handed it to Alex and wandered over the to the Angelique's portrait. It seemed to Quentin as if she towered over them all, silently watching. He wondered if she'd approve of Collinwood's new master and mistress.

"He looks sort of like Quentin," Claire pointed out.

"Sort of? More like a dead ringer, except for that scar on his cheek," Alex countered.

Tracy nodded her agreement, "Must be a family resemblance. He is Quentin's ancestor."

"Still kind of uncanny," Alex answered. "Too bad it's not finished. It's an enchanting piece, almost demands your attention."

"It looks like he was going to add some other people," Quentin speculated, dividing his attention between the conversation in progress and his fascination with the image of Angelique.

Alex shook his head. "I wonder why he never finished it. Yeah, it's amazing isn't it? So evil here," pointing to the piece in his hand. He gestured to the portrait on the wall, "So prim over there. The double life of Angelique Collins. I wonder what Charles Collins knew that the others didn't,"

Claire rolled her eyes, "Here he goes. Another plot for another book."

"I've been doing some research," Alex exclaimed in a defensive tone.

Quentin raised his eyebrows, "What did you find out?"

"The servant girl legend is just that, and after seeing this, my vote goes to her. She'd make some ghost."

Claire's face took on a mock expression of sympathy, "Poor Angelique Collins. He's going to start, and she'll have no more secrets."

Tracy broke her silence, "Do we have to have a ghost, Alex?" Alex glanced at her, not able to discern if she was being serious. She glanced at him a moment longer then looked away. Alex was silent, unsure of how he should respond.

Quentin broke the awkward silence. "Alex always makes up his own legends. Anyway, I'm not half as curious about Angelique Collins as I am about Charles. He is quite good, you know." Quentin gently but firmly relieved Alex of the painting.

"He is good?"

"He was good," Quentin amended.

"He was good," Alex agreed, reluctantly. There was something about the painting he didn't like. Charles had an unpleasant expression on his face. He appeared triumphant, as if he'd just completed a long, arduous task. But there was something disquieting about his demeanor; it suggested something sinister to Alex. He tried to shrug it off. Maybe it's just the resemblance to Quentin, he reasoned. Still, he did not like the painting and wished Quentin would burn it. Carlotta came in the room and announced that dinner was ready.

They made their way to the dining room where they found a sumptuous feast awaiting them. Alex did not care for Carlotta much; her whole attitude and demeanor rubbed him the wrong way. However, you had to admit, the lady could cook. He wondered, not for the first time, how she managed to keep the house up. From all evidence, it was a solo effort. There was Gerard, but he seemed to be solely engaged in the outdoor chores. He savored a bite of impeccably flavored pork.

The foursome chatted amiably over the main course. As Carlotta cleared the plates, Alex pointed to Claire's new dress, reopening a previous argument. "Will you look at that? Gregory strikes again! He must think we're the manor folk. Honey, remember, we are broke."

Claire smiled indulgently at him. It was an age-old argument. She swore that if Alex had his way, her whole wardrobe would come from Goodwill. She'd splurged a little since arriving in Collinsport. OK, she admitted, it had been more than a little, but they were not paying rent and she had to have something to wear at book signings and promotional engagements. She fervently hoped they could make lightning strike twice with the next book. Their first had been a best-seller, but the proceeds had been barely enough to cover their prior debts and medical expenses incurred by Alex's ailing mother,

Tracy had quickened her pace and greeted them in the dining room, standing next to Carlotta who was holding a package. "What's that?" Quentin queried with a slightly suspicious tone.

Carlotta handed him the package as Tracy answered, "It's our surprise."

"What is it?"

She beamed, "Something you can't be without?"

"You've got to be kidding!" Quentin tore open the wrapping and drew out the riding habit, an expression of disbelief transforming his face. Laughter erupted from the trio, and Quentin joined in almost immediately.

Tracy controlled herself long enough to announce, "Gregory said I can return it." Quentin kissed her lightly on the lips.

"I promise you I'll wear it … someday." Carlotta had been standing there immune to the atmosphere of mirth that had enveloped the two couples. As she turned to leave, Quentin called out, "Oh Carlotta, I found some paintings of Charles Collins in the tower room. Do you know anything about his history?"

She turned to face them, a look of composed joy etched in her features. "He was a brilliant man, a marvelous artist."

Alex, puzzled by her change in demeanor and her adamant tone commented, "You almost sound like you knew him."

She regarded him impassively, "I've read a lot about him, Mr. Jenkins." Turning her attention to Quentin she asked, "Will you be having brandy in the gallery?"

Quentin regarded Alex with a questioning glance. "No, we're up with the sun these days."

Quentin shook his head, and she returned to the task of clearing away the remnants of the meal. Claire was sending signals that it was time to go. Quentin and Alex followed their wives out of the dining room and down the hall. Quentin lagged behind, letting the women move ahead of them. He turned to Alex, his voice lowered, "Listen, I've had more of those crazy daydreams."

"Want to talk about them?"

Quentin scanned the area in front of them, satisfied that Tracy could not hear them. "Not now. Why don't you come over tomorrow?" Alex nodded and turned to join his wife as they made their way back to the cottage.

Quentin was tired and decided to turn in early. As he'd hoped, he was asleep almost instantly. At first, his slumber was normal and restful; however, when the insistent beacon in the tower room shone out, casting its rays upon him, he became restless, tossing and turning. A few minutes later, he opened his eyes, gazing intently at the amber glow. After a few seconds, he answered the summons and made his way out of the room, down the winding corridors, and up the steep steps to the tower room.

The door opened of its own accord. Angelique was there, reclining in state, radiating an opalescent glow. The milky light made her seem to be almost transparent, without substance. She extended her arms, smiling lasciviously, beckoning him to join her on the daybed. He advanced eagerly, burying his face in her golden tresses, exulting in the scent of lilac perfume. She pulled him in close and kissed him passionately, ardently.

Quentin wasn't the only one to witness the eerie, ghostly luminescence. Gerard had seethed with rage as night after night it had summoned Quentin to the tower, to HER. He'd grudgingly obeyed the orders from Carlotta and HER to stay away. Before the usurper arrived, she had been his, or rather he had been hers. The days were filled with tedious, endless chores. He fetched, carried, and performed whatever service Carlotta demanded of him. He did so with little complaint; always mindful that at the end of the day, SHE would be there, waiting with outstretched arms. He tried, as he had on other nights, to ignore HER betrayal. A delicate peal of laughter, so faint, almost inaudible taunted him. Stifling a roar of rage, his grip tightened on the truncheon he carried. It was the same one with which he'd dispatched the intruder who'd invaded the mansion the night before HE arrived.

With serpentine stealth, he made his way to the tower, creeping silently, purposefully, up the stairs. His expert tread avoided all the weak points that would creak and give away his intent. He paused as he neared the threshold. SHE would be furious. In her rage, she might even decide he was now expendable and discard him like a worn out pair of shoes. Another tinkle of laughter assaulted his ears, dissolving his indecision. With a roar of rage, he launched himself on Quentin, pulling him off her.

Charles' ecstasy was rudely aborted as he was thrown to the floor. He saw Gabriel standing over him wielding a vicious looking club. It descended in a deadly arc; he twisted away, barely avoiding the deadly impact. The attempt to launch another ruthless blow was thwarted by Angelique. Her talons tore at Gabriel's face. He screamed and dropped the weapon, covering his face with his hands to protect his eyes from the savage assault. Charles took advantage of the distraction and leaped upon him, raining blow after blow upon his disoriented foe. He screamed, "She's mine brother! She's mine!"

Gerard managed to shove Quentin off him and unsteadily get to his feet. Quentin, seeing Gabriel through a scarlet haze of rage, brutally pounced on him, throwing his "brother" backward down the stairs. Quentin darted after him, beating his stunned opponent with more blows and then encircling his hands around his throat, determined to choke the life out of him. Dazed and almost unconscious, Gerard could offer little resistance.

His murderous efforts were interrupted by someone shaking him, "Quentin, stop it. You'll kill him! Stop it!" With a bellow of rage, he turned and fixed his attention on Laura. Silently, he swore that this would be her last act of interference. His hands locked around her neck, relentlessly determined to end her life. Dimly he noticed her hair was dark; her eyes were brown. They pleaded silently for mercy. Laura? No … He released her and whispered her name, "Tracy." His arms dropped to his side as he watched her gasp and sputter, her fingers massaging her chafed throat. He looked down at the floor where the semiconscious Gerard lay, the lacerations bleeding profusely. He turned his attention back to Tracy, a silent apology stuck in his throat.

"Mr. Collins!" He whirled; it was Carlotta, clad in a nightgown, her face transfixed with horror. She ran to her prone nephew. "What happened?" Quentin stared vacantly into space, unable to answer her query.

He stood there, motionless and unresponsive, a look of horror etched on his face. Tracy took his hand tentatively. It hung limp at his side, his features unchanging. "Quentin, come with me," she suggested timidly. When he didn't answer or give the slightest sign that her presence registered in his mind, she cleared her throat and repeated the request more assertively, "Quentin, darling, come with me." Relief washed over her as he turned, nodded and smiled faintly at her. She led him into a room that had been used for card playing in the past. She chose this particular place because it was not as elegantly furnished and was the closest thing to cozy and intimate that Collinwood had to offer. "Carlotta, please bring tea to the card room, something soothing to help him sleep." Carlotta nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Gerard glared up at them as they left the room.

Tracy ushered him to a chair. Quentin began to babble almost incoherent apologies and aborted attempts at an explanation. Tracy tried to reassure him, hoping the tea would settle his nerves. They were interrupted by Carlotta. "Gerard should be fine," she announced reproachfully. "He's a bit upset about his face, and he has a large bump on his head, but I doubt he'll need medical attention."

Tracy favored her with an apologetic expression, "What was he doing in the house anyway? He sleeps in the groundskeeper's cottage, doesn't he?"

Carlotta nodded, "Yes, Mrs. Collins. He thought he saw a light and came to investigate."

"A light? From where?"

"The tower."

"Well, you can pass along our apologies, but please tell him that Quentin sometimes works late and is occasionally in the tower." Carlotta nodded her understanding and set the tray down on the table "It's late; please go back to bed." Carlotta cast a long look at both of them before she turned and left the room.

Quentin sat for many long minutes, head in his hands, his tea untouched. "There isn't any explanation, none at all."

"Darling, I don't think we need to talk about it anymore." She stifled a yawn, and took a sip from her cup, hoping that Quentin would do the same.

"The first thing I remember was Gerard, but I didn't recognize him. What was he doing in the house anyway?"

"He simply thought he saw a light."

"And what was I about to do to you?"

"You stopped when you realized what you were doing."

"But still…"

She interrupted him by crossing over and caressing his shoulders, "Don't worry about me. The important thing is to try to find out why it happened."

"I know; how are we going to do that?"

"It's late. I'm sure it will seem easier tomorrow."

"You're not afraid to sleep in the same room with me?"

She held him close, "No, darling, no."

She took him by the hand and led him back to their room. She was reassured to hear, judging from his regular breathing, that he'd dropped off into sleep almost immediately. With a deep sigh of relief she turned over and followed him.

Quentin's slumber was anything but restful. Gabriel's voice assaulted him again. "Wake up, Charles, wake up!" He gazed up, bleary eyed and sleepy, "You've been with her again!"

"What's wrong with you, brother? Don't you remember? Your wife is dead."

He shook his head in an accusatory fashion, "No, she still comes to you. I know it." Charles heard himself laughing at Gabriel and immediately regretted it. A mad gleam had come into his "brother's" eyes. "All right, if you want her so much, you will have her!" Two men burst into the room and accosted him. He fought in vain, but they relentlessly dragged him from the room. One of them hit him over the head to force him to cease his struggling. He was vaguely aware of being dragged down stairs in near total darkness. Gabriel stood at the threshold of an impregnable iron door. He nodded to the thugs, and they threw him into the dank, fetid chamber. "You want her? You will have her! For eternity, brother, for eternity!" Gabriel giggled insanely watching his brother scramble to his feet an instant before the door was slammed in his face.

"Let me out! Let me out!" Despite the grogginess from the blow to the head, he managed to rise unsteadily on his feet. Dimly, he heard an odd scraping noise. He staggered in the darkness toward the sound and fell over something large and rectangular blocking his path. He cursed and felt the smooth wooden surface. It was a box of some kind. Feeling his way around the length of it, he staggered towards the scraping noise. Eventually, he made his way to the door and pounded in vain, alternately screaming to be let out. The scratching sound continued as he collapsed in a dejected heap. Eventually, the air became stale, and he found it difficult to breathe. His breaths turned to gasps as he struggled to inflate his lungs with oxygen-filled air. "I can't breathe. I can't breathe."

Dimly, Quentin was aware that he was being shaken by Tracy as the choking sensation overcame him. "Quentin, Quentin, what's wrong?" He continued to sputter and gasp for a few more seconds, but they soon trailed off as he became peripherally aware of where he was and of Tracy's presence. A look of relief passed over his face before he trailed off into normal sleep.