PART 3: THE DEVIL WITH DINNER
Chapter 11
Elizabeth came into the Drawing Room to find Quentin brooding there. Joe Haskell and Chris Jennings were on their feet as soon as they saw her. Quentin twisted hurriedly and looked at Elizabeth and started to rise.
"No, don't get up," she encouraged Quentin. "Good morning! Chris, how lovely to see you." She floated over to Joe Haskell and kissed his cheek. "Joe, it feels like ten years. Welcome home. How are you?"
"Mrs. Stoddard," said Joe, "I'm quite well. Do you remember that Chris is my cousin? We thought we'd come scare up Quentin and see what was going on."
"Gentlemen, have you had breakfast? Can I ring for more coffee?"
"Elizabeth, let me," said Quentin hoarsely. "I'll ask Mamie to make us another pot."
"Yes, thank you, Quentin," Elizabeth said, her brow puckering with concern as Quentin rose and shambled out of the room. He was looking awful. As the days passed, he was feeling more and more a plaything of hell. He was thrown into walls and furniture regularly by unseen forces, usually while no one else was in the room – particularly at bedtime or when it was time to bathe and he was alone. Barnabas, deeply worried, fumed that Quentin's being drubbed while out of anyone else's company was just one more ugly twist to the danger he was in – seemingly designed to make some of his friends wonder whether he was actually doing these things to himself.
This morning, Quentin had a black eye and blood-crusted cuts healing all over his hands. One arm was now bandaged where he'd been stabbed by a letter-opener the night before, the object whipping across the room and embedding itself in his bicep with vicious intent. He had dark smudges under his eyes, and his hands would randomly shake.
Knowing that Quentin did not like to be quizzed about these attacks, Elizabeth strove to keep the conversation on neutral topics.
"I'm afraid we will be losing Coterie soon," she told the others. "Our new stove was delivered yesterday, and it's been installed, and I just don't see any further reason for keeping Coterie. We can't live like royalty forever. Roger disagrees completely, of course."
"Mrs. Stoddard," said Chris Jennings gravely, "I'm afraid that I am on your brother's side. The Coterie's food is just phenomenal."
"I haven't had any," said Joe with a grin, "But I'm willing to be convinced."
Elizabeth turned to them both with bright eyes.
"You will come tonight, won't you both? Tonight is the dinner party. Apparently Barnabas and Julia want to hold a séance before the meal, which is not mandatory for guests, of course. We are dining at 8 p.m. If you wish to avoid the séance, just arrive near 8 o'clock, but if you want to observe or take part, come around six-thirty." Elizabeth fluttered her hands in the air. "What am I in this room for? Oh – my glasses and my checkbook." She strolled over to the writing desk and pulled out some papers. Joe followed her, his eye falling on some of the cards and receipts she pulled from the drawer. Not really thinking anything of it, he observed, "What's that company, Mrs. Stoddard? That SVO Enterprises?"
Elizabeth paused, then put her fingers around the card slowly. "It's nothing much," she said lightly. "It is just a new corporation that I've heard something about."
"Now, it's funny," Joe observed, seating himself as Quentin hurried in, lugging a great samovar of coffee, "but I think I've heard of that or seen that before. Is it a company in Collinsport?"
"Yes," said Elizabeth with a deep blush.
"Is what?" asked Quentin, as he stepped up behind Elizabeth, his eye falling to the business card on the desk. "SVO, is that what you're talking about? Sounds like a mod new hair salon or something. Is it?"
"I thought it sounded like some new branch of the Teamsters union," chuckled Chris, finishing the last of his coffee and eyeing the hot samovar Quentin was setting on the table.
"Why does it remind me of insurance? Or investments, or something, I wonder?" mused Joe.
Quentin's gaze suddenly sharpened. "Elizabeth, where did you get that card? Did your lawyer give it to you? Or a stockbroker or investment firm?"
"No," Elizabeth murmured as Joe put his cup back into its saucer.
"I heard the initials SVO from you, Quentin, I think," said Joe, as Quentin turned towards him – and then back toward Elizabeth.
Roger Collins sailed into the room, his hands lightly tapping his chest and midriff as he came. "Good morning, all!" he cried with rather more luster than the others were used to seeing in him. "Mamie's brought coffee, I see! Well, why is everyone standing around? Where's breakfast? Let's get some food in here. I'll go talk to Mamie."
"Elizabeth," said Quentin, his brows drawing together handsomely, "who gave you that card for SVO company? What is SVO?"
Roger stepped out of the French windows, not paying attention to the conversation, eager to summon breakfast. The open door of the French windows let in a wash of birdsong, and sunshine checkered by a hedge.
"Gentlemen," Elizabeth said softly, "this card was given to me by Cary Olivo. His company is SVO Enterprises."
There was a second of silence, as the name Olivo meant little to two of the men in the room; but this was not the case with the third.
"Cary Olivo!" echoed Quentin in dawning horror, "Elizabeth, my God! When did you see him? Where did you run into him?"
"He came to the house, Quentin," Elizabeth said, squaring her shoulders and turning to face him. "I met him here."
Joe, sensing peril in the air, looked from Quentin to Elizabeth and asked, "what am I missing?"
"Omelets!" cried Roger, re-entering the room. "Mamie is coming with her pad in a minute and we can order what we like, but I thought I would like to try something called a 'Western' omelet!"
"Not now, Roger," said Quentin, not taking his penetrating eyes from Elizabeth. "Isn't SVO the organization that gave Maggie Evans an enormous insurance payoff? Does Cary Olivo work in the insurance industry?"
"Olivo!" Roger burst out, suddenly abandoning all thoughts of breakfast. "Where? Is he here? Quentin, what do you mean?"
"I mean," Quentin said, his eyes glittering, "that Maggie Evans went away to France for a few months on an insurance payout on the death of Sam Evans, and paid by this SVO company, to the tune of eight thousand dollars! Isn't that right?"
Joe stood, a dark look on his face. "Something is really wrong," he said, looking back and forth at the others, "so who is this Olivo guy and what do you think he's done with Maggie?"
"Olivo's – done something to Maggie Evans? What, in the name of God?" Roger asked, in shock.
"Now, gentlemen, wait," Elizabeth protested.
"Apparently he came right here to the house and saw Elizabeth," said Quentin, his eyes transferring fire to Roger's. That flame ignited, and an uproar ensued, with three men exclaiming all at once.
Chris, bellowing in a loud voice, managed to restore peace. "Alright, guys," he said, "why don't you let the woman speak? You're all shouting at her for information that she can't give you at this rate. Be quiet and sit with your coffee and let her talk. That is, if you want to, Mrs. Stoddard."
There was a ruffled silence.
"Thank you, Chris," Elizabeth said, a trifle huskily.
"But Elizabeth, what is all this?" Roger persisted. "Did this Olivo threaten you? What on earth has Maggie Evans to do with any of it? Did –"
Elizabeth dragged out the desk chair and sat down in it.
"This is what took place," she said. "Cary Olivo came to the house to introduce himself. Nobody was here but me. He and I went to the Blue Whale and talked things over and I got to know him a little. His company is called SVO. Roger, his daughter died, and the 'SVO' is her initials. Also, he told me the story of Maggie.
"Apparently, Mr. Olivo was in the army during the war; Richard Garner told me that. When Cary was here in Collinsport a while back investigating to see what kind of business he had inherited shares in, he encountered Maggie Evans. He asked around about her and found out that Sam had also been in the army. They never knew one another, he and Sam, but one was in the 32nd Brigade and the other in the 36th, or vice-versa. I'm not sure.
"Cary didn't introduce himself to Maggie or go to see her, or even talk to her, he simply saw her on the street. She looks terribly like his daughter Stephanie. His late daughter. He showed me her photograph, and it's true."
"Elizabeth," said Roger, his eyebrows sailing up to his hairline, "are you calling this man Cary?"
"He and I spent a long time talking about this, Roger. He investigated us, we investigated him, and then he came and told me more things and encouraged me to get them verified. Well, the company he runs, SVO, does things for people. Charitable things. It's rather dedicated to the development of people. Cary's got more money than he knows what to do with. Well, Maggie resembled Stephanie, so Cary asked after her, learned that she was alone in the world, found out about Sam, and it is as simple as that. He merely wanted to do something for her. As a father. He figured she wouldn't just accept money from him on the street. so he decided to pretend to be an insurance company that had a policy on Sam."
Elizabeth rose.
"I think it's nice. I'm ashamed, Roger, that never in all our time here in this house have we done anything close to what Cary did for Maggie. He acted as a father, and a help. Oh, yes, he went a roundabout way and you could call it dishonest or high-handed, but he did it because he can do nothing more for his own child, and Sam can do nothing more for Maggie – and he did it also for a fellow veteran. As I say, Collins Enterprises has never done any such thing."
"Well," Roger spluttered, "I wouldn't say exactly that, Liz! We've more than taken care of our own."
"Of our own, yes! But what about others who are not our own?
"I spent a day with Cary Olivo and watched and listened to him, and I liked what I saw. I had Richard Garner check out further facts Cary had given me, and on Cary's insistence. You'll like him, Roger."
"I doubt that very much!" bellowed Roger, the cords in his neck beginning to swell, and strutting back and forth as if not sure where the aggravation he felt was coming from. He was too used to coupling Olivo's name with danger to let it go all in a minute.
His sister turned to face him. "Well then, at the very least you can be civil to him when he gets here and treat him as you would any guest."
"When he gets here?" Roger hollered. "Why would Olivo be coming here, for heaven's sake?"
"Because," Elizabeth practically shouted, matching Roger tone for tone, "I have invited him to our dinner party tonight!"
.
.
.
"Mister Barnabas," said Patience, timidly placing a hand on his arm, "do you think you can help me to destroy the witch?"
Barnabas looked on Patience with compassion. He took her hand, thinking that she looked haggard and worried. She had been blossoming lately, taking long rambles with Willie Loomis, getting some sun, becoming used to the clothing and casualness of the 1970s. But today she looked pinched and distressed.
"Patience," he said, "I don't think that Victoria Winters was a witch. I believe that she was proved innocent of all charges. It was another power at work that hurt the Collins family and others back then, but Victoria Winters was not the one at fault."
Patience listened, but only looked sad.
"You don't know," she said, "or you have forgotten. You went off to England and did not see the end of it all. You were not there with me, Mr. Barnabas. She took my lover from me and destroyed him with sickness, and then the sickness took me away too, and I never got to live my life.
"And now I have nothing but the hope of vengeance. I have to exact vengeance, or why is it else that I am here? … My life is over," she said slowly, "and yet, I am here today. How will I ever get back home?"
She suddenly put her hands to her face. "And – with Peter dead – where is home?"
.
.
.
Elliot was in his armchair in the library of his quiet house, frowning over select texts detailing Satanic phenomena and exorcism, when his front door unlocked itself with a loud click, and opened. He glanced up, nearly knocking over his sherry glass. His heart skidded in his chest and his face went hot with surprise. His breath came unevenly. He stared at the door.
After a moment, Angelique walked in.
He said harshly, "That is no way to come into someone's home, Miss Angelique. That is not the way to behave when you wish to consult someone." His pulse was jagged with the sudden shock.
Angelique merely stared at him. Today she wore a peach-colored frock and white beads at her throat. Spirally tendrils of hair drifted at her shoulders. She was unutterably beautiful.
"Elliot Stokes," Angelique said in her distinctive voice, "I wanted to see you."
"Get out," grunted Elliot. He raised an arm and pointed at the door. "Get out of this room and close the door after you, and then knock like a decent human creature, and stand there and wait until I get up and answer the door."
Her huge eyes went deadly. "I – you – " she panted. Then she turned and marched out the door and slammed it behind her.
Elliot sat a moment, then checked the second-hand of his watch and noted the time. Then he turned determinedly back to his papers and books. I'll give her three minutes, he told himself. She'll knock again within three minutes.
But three minutes passed, then ten, and nothing happened. Elliot got up from his chair and glanced out his front windows. Then he went and opened his front door. Angelique had gone.
He silently closed the door and stood by it.
What had she needed? Why had she come; why had she not waited?
Angelique. Did you think that I would not after all have come and opened the door to your knock?
.
.
.
Quentin sat in the Drawing Room after a meager lunch of tomato soup. He now clanked with crucifixes, crosses, and holy medals. Since something Satanic had its grip on him, Julia had deduced that demonic possession just might be the next step in whatever diabolical moves were being made by the devil.
Quentin was pretty nearly played out, his nerves stretched fine. Panna was on high alert regarding him, regularly pleading with Julia, Barnabas and Elliot to make the persecution stop. The one good thing about the situation was that Quentin and Panna seemed to be in love; Panna was now at Collinwood at all hours to shore up Quentin's spirits or merely keep watch as he slept, a role she shared with other volunteers – Carolyn and Chris, Barnabas and Willie, Harry and Patience. For Patience had offered herself also in any capacity in which she could be used. Quentin was getting a kick out of trying to teach her how to play poker.
But everyone in the household was worried about him. He seemed to get more frail and haunted, and hopeless, with each passing day.
He spoke with Barnabas the afternoon of the dinner party and séance.
"Do you imagine," he said quietly, "that this will do any good at all?" Barnabas tried to conceal his concern as he studied his friend. Quentin's eyes were dull and dead. He seemed to be surviving only on oxygen and ragged bouts of humor.
"Many times in the past," said Barnabas, "we have been answered with help when we called out to the beyond. I do believe that someone in an unseen realm can give us assistance tonight."
Quentin gave a ghost of a smile, and briefly pressed Barnabas' fingers. "I hope so," he said hoarsely. "The new thing in this hellish game is my compulsion to cut myself. I've sliced my arms, my stomach and my chest. Going to run out of places to cut soon, might have to start on my throat." He snorted.
"Julia and Elizabeth have removed all sharp implements from my room. They didn't realize that I'd tear the guts and wires out of lampshades in order to keep making cuts. I've bled on just about every color of Elizabeth's linen." His eyeballs rotated upwards slightly with exhaustion, then focused anew on Barnabas; but that slight upwards flitting of the eyeballs terrified Barnabas. It was as though Quentin was losing hold of life.
"Only wish Panna wasn't in it," he muttered. "That's my big regret. Of all times to meet the woman of my dreams, it has to be now, just as I'm being dragged offstage by the boogeyman. Those girls have had enough ugliness in their lives. They're Holocaust survivors, you know, or at least the eldest sister is, the one who's a doctor. My God, I don't guess Roger Collins ever expected to marry a woman with a number tattooed on her arm," Quentin continued, "but he means to. I saw him kiss that tattoo the other night.
"Then there's Panna, who deals with anguish by being lighthearted and merry. I don't blame her. It's a better way to deal with pain than some other ways I've seen.
"And there's little sister Connie, the heartbreaker. I guess she went off and got ensnared in that Israeli business a few years back and nearly got herself killed. But maybe their move to Collinsport will have done some good; at least Roger's marrying Ronka, and Connie has gotten pretty thick with Joe Haskell. Couldn't have found a better man. So," he said hoarsely, his eyes gleaming with humor or tears, "now all we have to worry about is me dying in Panna's arms."
.
.
.
Later that afternoon, Elizabeth stepped into the Drawing Room to make sure it was fresh and inviting for the séance and later dinner party, with flowers prettily arranged in vases. She found her brother sitting with his head down, a handkerchief pressed to his face. He was loosely holding a paper on his lap. Elizabeth drew close to him in concern.
"Why, Roger," she asked, "what is it? Are you unwell?"
After a moment, he sighed.
"Just looking at this," he said, rattling the paper in his lap. Elizabeth craned her neck and looked, and made out the writing on the paper. It was the proposed dinner menu for this evening from Coterie.
Roger lifted the paper and read aloud.
"Hors d'oeuvres for tonight: Beef tenderloin with merlot jam. Panko-crusted crab cake bites with roasted pepper-chive aioli. Seared steak lettuce cups. Wild mushroom ragoût on crispy polenta with comte cheese.
"And the entrée: Pan-roasted halibut, lobster mashed potatoes, basil oil and lobster cognac reduction. And for dessert: Chocolate Perfection Pie – the Buckingham Palace recipe. It's almost poetry. Liz, don't do it, please. Don't get rid of Coterie – I can't give them up. How can you ask me to go back and eat the slop that that creature will be slapping onto our plates again? I can't. I'm not Oliver Twist; I need cultivated eating."
"Oh, Roger. Look at this seriously now: we simply cannot continue to house a contingent of the Coterie Eaterie in the backyard. It's impossible. Don't you want to enjoy the terrace this summer? Do be reasonable."
"It is you who must be reasonable, my dear Elizabeth. With Coterie here – "
"When do you and Veronika plan to be married?" Liz interrupted with a smile. "Have you at least chosen a season, even if you have not set a date?"
Roger sighed and smiled, momentarily content to stop arguing about Coterie. "She says September or October or November, and I say I can't go that long. Perhaps with some encouragement I can work her up to August, perhaps July. Things are up in the air. We don't know whether we want to live here or take another of the Collins houses, or a different home entirely. I've lived at Collinwood all my life, of course, so I don't know how I'd suffer the change. There's David to consider – and you. And Panna and Connie also. Those sisters are tight, and after all the devastation they've suffered in their lives, they don't care to be separated. I won't ask it of Veronika. Lots of factors."
Roger quickly glanced up at his sister. "And what will we have to eat while all this planning goes on, you ask? Do you see how thin Veronika is? I'm insisting that she at least break for lunch every day or let me bring her something between patients. We must keep Coterie on, Liz. I admit it, you have created a monster here, you and Mamie Quillen, and that monster is me."
Elizabeth sat and studied her brother. "Roger, have you considered the monetary impact? Do you realize the cost of keeping Coterie on the grounds? Not only do we have to pay them for their expert catering and serving, and high-quality foods, but we also have to pay them a set sum for consideration, where we pay for jobs that might have come their way while they were babysitting us!"
"We can afford it, can't we?"
"Well, of course we can afford it. But do you want to continue this arrangement into perpetuity?"
"Yes."
"Paying, oh, it would perhaps work out to be a thousand dollars per year?"
"Yes. And let's get rid of Mrs. Johnson."
"Roger, I am not getting rid of Mrs. Johnson, and that's final."
Roger grunted. There was a stalemated silence.
"I'm not sure whether you are aware," Liz said, settling back against the sofa, "but something seems to have grown up between Barnabas and Julia Hoffman. Have you noticed?"
"What's wrong? Not speaking to one another?"
Elizabeth smiled. "Hardly that. I believe that they're in love. Yours might not be the only wedding Coterie will cater this year."
"Good God, those two? … Oh, you must be mistaken." Roger smiled.
Then he thought for a little.
"Well," he began again, considering, "I can see how Barnabas might possibly be attracted to her – she does have rather beautiful legs, and that smoky, come-hither voice. Yes, I can see that. She's slender, highly intelligent, but she's a pushy doctor. Does he know what he might be getting into, letting himself get wrapped around the finger of an aggressive female physician?"
Elizabeth gasped in incredulity.
"But Barnabas? Well, he's a Collins, so one might say that that that makes him automatically desirable. Tall, wealthy, presentable. But are you sure she has feelings for him? I would bet that you are mistaken there. Though he's a Collins and my cousin, I don't see any special allure that plain-looking Barnabas would hold for a woman like Julia."
Roger rose from the couch, the Coterie menu plan dangling from his hand, and seemed to seriously think over the proposal.
"Julia and Barnabas? No, Liz. Besides, Julia's a dry, analytical type. One can tell that at a glance. And besides, though of course we love him, Barnabas is a bit of a bore.
"I'd be willing to bet a great deal of my private fortune – I might even be willing to bet Coterie – that there's not a scintilla of warmth between them."
.
.
.
"We can't all wear black!" Panna cried, laughing, when she caught sight of Veronika changing into a severe but fashionably short black lace dress for the Collins dinner party. "They'll yell 'here come the Polish ladies from the old country!'"
"I want to wear black," Connie insisted from her bedroom in Sand-Skrit Cottage. "Suits my nature. What's wrong with black?"
"You are what is wrong with black. Wear that smashing white-and-caramel thing instead, you look like a dream. Joe Haskell has only ever seen you in shorts and hiking boots. I am wearing emerald, of course."
"Dress yourself, Panna, and let me dress myself. I do not need your help."
"Hmm," said Panna.
"Both of you are giving me a headache," scowled Veronika, who had a lot on her mind. Her sisters had taken word of her impending union with Roger Collins in accordance with their own characters: Panna with rapture, Connie with deadly silence. Further than that, Veronika had never been in love with anyone before, at least not in full view of both of her sisters. She was elated and mortified and felt like breaking out into tearful laughter every few minutes. She loved Roger Collins – had grown hot at first sight of him – and, besides physical attraction, something had clicked in her soul. That's him, a voice inside had told her. That's the man you can love without trepidation, and who will treasure you. He needs you; he's always needed you. You understand one another. He will see the woman beneath the ironed creases, just as you see the man behind his façade of disgruntled fitfulness.
Oh papa, she thought. I love him, though he is not a Jew. He is not even a Pole. But he is so much like you, and his love for me is deep. I think that you and mama would have approved.
"How is Quentin?" Veronika called over her shoulder to Panna.
Her sister's face lost its smile immediately. "Something has to be done," Panna said. "I don't see how he can go on much longer. Ronka, I want you to take a close look at him when you get there. You'll see how run down he is, how thin. I might have to start staying at Collinwood nights for a time until all this is over."
"Fusspot Roger Collins would let you do that?" Connie called from her bedroom.
Ignoring this, Veronika said, "Julia Hoffman is there and I have full faith in her."
"Yes of course; but I want you to see Quentin anyway. Julia herself might even want to confer with you. Something terrible has him in its grip."
Panna strolled about Veronika's bedroom in her high heels, arms up, hands at the back of her neck, tucking up her hair as she came, the short emerald-and-turquoise dress unzipped and displaying her creamy back in the mirror.
"If something doesn't change," Panna said determinedly, "I will take him to a rabbi or a healer – we will find help no matter what it takes. Oh, Veronika, I … I'm in love with Quentin Collins."
.
.
.
Out on the terrace of Collinwood, amidst the hustle of perspiring Coterie servers coming and going in preparation for the party, in the cool air of the day, Elizabeth Stoddard drew her brother over to the stone railings.
"Cary Olivo says that he will let us buy out his shares," she told him in a low voice. "Buy him out completely or buy as much to make him a noncontrolling shareholder. But he'd rather keep at least some shares in us, because he likes the company. He says that it is entirely up to you and me. Will you meet him and see what you think of him, without fearing him?"
She looked into Roger's eyes.
"I like him. I was impressed with him. I think he likes us.
"I understand that I'm a woman and that you might believe that he is trying to fool me in order to get into the Collins Companies and destroy us. Alright, I admit that he was very complimentary to me, personally, when we spoke. I admit that I'm attracted to him. But see him for yourself and make your own estimation – you and Quentin too.
"Roger, perhaps not everyone is a bad character out to get us. Maybe Cary Olivo will be a friend."
Elizabeth smiled. Roger narrowed his eyes at her and was silent a moment. Then he slung an arm about her and kissed her temple, and they walked back into the house.
.
.
.
Willie cupped Patience's face between his hands.
"I'm only gonna say this once," he said, "oh, who am I kidding. I'm gonna say it as many times as we need to. Patience, you got to ignore that Nadia Schofield. She ain't no witch, ya know? She was born maybe 24 years ago, not in the 1700s with you. Ya know?
"So, no slappin' and no punchin', and no name-callin', and no ugly looks across the room. And no trippin' her, either. And stay away from Derek Schofield too, that's the guy with her. And he's her brother, by the way, not her boyfriend." Willie gently released Patience. "Barnabas wanted me to tell you that special. Get it?"
"Yes," she said. Her chin began to tremble wildly.
Willie looked at her with concern, his brows quirking upwards.
There were tears on her cheeks.
"Oh, baby, what's wrong?" he cried.
Patience gasped, "do you think that they will send me home, Willie? Oh – I don't want to go home! I want to stay here with you. You have been so good to me, and so has Barnabas and Mrs. Stoddard, and Carolyn and Julia, but mostly you. Oh," she laughed, pushing her tears away with the backs of both wrists, "I want to stay in this place of loud noises and immodest freedoms, where people do not wear shoes sometimes, but have crazy clothes, and the marvelous electricity thing, and that set of television.
"And Julia is a doctor, though she be a woman! And Mrs. Stoddard is a householder and leader of an estate, though she be a woman! Oh, I prefer this place and time.
"And you are here, and Peter is no more –"
She stroked Willie's cheek. "And there I slapped you when I saw you first, and I be so sorry. Willie, I like you. Can you ask Barnabas and Julia and that professor whether they will keep me here instead of sending me off into darkness?"
"They'll keep you here if they can, Patience!" Willie said hotly. "I'll try to make them keep you here! I'll ask them to please do anything they can so that we can be together!"
He pulled her close.
"Yes, please," Patience cried, burying her face in his neck. "For that is what I want!"
.
.
.
"We haven't even told Elizabeth," Julia observed. "That's awful of us. We have got to remedy that quickly so that she doesn't find out through Elliot or Quentin. If that happens, she will be hurt."
Barnabas made a comical face and spread his hands.
"There isn't much I can do about the business!" he laughed. "My bride-to-be won't choose a date."
Julia smiled. "Well, that's true. I need your help there. When do you want to marry me? Do you want to marry in the spring or in summer? … Though we're running a little short on springtime, I will point out."
"True," Barnabas said, holding her tight against him and putting his chin on her head. "I'll tell you what. Let's get through this blasted party and tell Elizabeth as it's wrapping up. Perhaps she can help us to choose a date. How's that?"
.
.
.
"This is a mistake," Derek said softly, "and I don't want to go."
"Please," said Nadia, facing the mirror, glimmering in an orange-and-fuchsia sheath and carefully applying mascara, "don't you realize that this might be it? They're having a séance before dinner and perhaps there will be a message for me, some sort of answer to all this that has been plaguing us. Consider: that family and you and I, all together in that house, concentrating on the beyond. I just have the feeling something will come through for me."
Derek stared at her for a long time. "What if you get hurt?" he asked, finally. "What if something terrible happens?"
"What if something terrible doesn't happen? I believe that our sojourn here in Collinsport has been leading up to this night. It's an incredible chance. Here I am having these bizarre dreams or neurological problems, whatever they are, connected with that house that neither of us had ever seen before, and now we are invited to join them for a séance to try to get some answers. Perhaps tonight we will receive the guidance that we need.
"We can't go on this way, Derek, and I'm disrupting your thesis. Your sabbatical has been practically ruined in all this nonsense. What harm can it do to go there, sit quietly in a darkened room holding hands with them, and then have a delicious dinner? What's the worst that can happen?"
