The Unloved Read online

  Kevin chuckled ruefully. “All right, so it’s not pretty,” he agreed. “But that isn’t dry rot—I checked the basement, and the timbers are fine. Besides, the whole foundation’s concrete, and it doesn’t get dry rot.”

  Anne made a sour face. “Right. All it does is decompose,” she pointed out.

  “Except that it hasn’t. And all the rest of what you see is just cosmetic. Every time I do something around here, I’m amazed. It’s as though the house has been taking care of itself all these years, just waiting for someone to come along and give it a new coat of paint.”

  At his words a faint alarm sounded in Anne’s head, and her eyes darkened as she looked at her husband. “Is that what you’re thinking of doing next?” she asked. “Painting it?”

  Kevin’s grin faded slightly. “What if I am? It needs it, and—”

  “And you only have another ten days of vacation,” Anne reminded him. “It’s one thing for you to fix a few things, but I hope you’re not planning to spend the whole time working on this place.”

  “I wasn’t, really, but why shouldn’t I?” Kevin asked, his manner suddenly defensive. “My mother and sister live here, Anne. What am I supposed to do, just let everything go?”

  Anne struggled with her conflicting emotions. In a way, of course, he was right—there was a lot that needed to be done to the house, and most of it was work Marguerite certainly couldn’t do. And, obviously, there wasn’t any money to hire people. But what about herself and the children? Weren’t they entitled to have some fun with Kevin sometime during these two weeks? “It just seems a little strange to me that someone who didn’t want to come down here at all is starting to act like he doesn’t ever plan to leave,” she said finally, then her heart skipped a beat as she saw a veil drop behind Kevin’s eyes.

  “You know that’s not true,” he said, but his voice seemed to Anne to lack conviction, and she suddenly had a feeling she didn’t want to pursue the subject any further.

  “Well, I didn’t come out here to give you grief, anyway,” she told him. “But something’s bothering me, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  Kevin looked at her quizzically. “And you wanted to talk to me alone,” he said, reading her mind.

  Anne nodded briefly, then told him what had happened in the upstairs hall that morning. “Do you know what’s in that room?” she asked when she was finished. “There was something about the way Marguerite was acting that gave me the strangest feeling. Like there was something she didn’t want me to see.”

  Kevin’s grin returned, and his eyes glinted with humor. “So you think you’ve detected a mystery in the mansion?” he teased. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but if it’s the room I’m thinking of, it was the nursery.”

  “The nursery?” Anne repeated. “Your nursery?”

  “First Marguerite’s, then mine,” Kevin agreed. “And there’s no mystery about it. If you want to see it, ask Ruby to unlock it for you.”

  But Ruby, who was slicing okra when Anne came into the kitchen a few minutes later, refused. “There’s some things best left alone,” she said, her eyes avoiding Anne’s.

  For a moment Anne considered demanding the keys, but then changed her mind. It was not, after all, her house, nor was Ruby her own employee. But for the rest of the day she found herself pausing repeatedly in front of the locked door, staring speculatively at it. And once, late in the afternoon, she felt eyes watching her as she stood in the hallway. But when she turned, the long corridor was empty.

  Helena Devereaux’s eyes blinked open in the darkness and she twisted her head automatically to look at the fluorescent hands of the clock by her bedside.

  A little after midnight.

  Usually she didn’t waken until two-thirty in the morning, and then her wakefulness only lasted a few minutes. But tonight, as the sound of insects droned in the darkness outside her open window, she was certain that something was wrong.

  The creatures of the night suddenly fell silent.

  A floorboard creaked softly somewhere beyond the closed door to her room.

  She listened intently for several seconds that seemed to stretch out forever, each of them marked by the abnormally loud ticking of the clock on the nightstand.

  The creak came again.

  For an instant she thought it must be Marguerite, but then knew it was not. Whoever was in the hall had stopped when the first floorboard creaked, and Marguerite would not have done that. So it was someone else.

  Helena’s eyes narrowed in the darkness as she remembered Anne standing in the corridor that afternoon, gazing at the door to the nursery. Her heart began to flutter as she understood what was happening. That woman was going to go into the nursery.

  Her first instinct was to reach for the button by her bed and summon Marguerite, but even as she stretched, she changed her mind.

  She would deal with this herself.

  She swung her legs off the bed and reached for the limp silk wrapper that Ruby had dropped on the chair on the other side of the night table. Why couldn’t the stupid woman leave it on the bed, where she could reach it?

  Helena struggled to her feet, supporting herself against the bed table as she reached for the wrapper, then sat down on the edge of the bed while she put the garment on.

  Finally, tying the belt around her waist and taking a single key from the drawer of her nightstand, she began making her way toward the door, edging along the wall to steady herself, her breathing growing harsher with every step.

  But the rasping in her lungs didn’t matter.

  What mattered was keeping that woman out of the nursery!

  She leaned against the wall for a moment while she caught her breath, then pulled the door open. The soft glow of a nightlight cast long shadows down the corridor, but there was no sign of Anne.

  And then, from downstairs, Helena heard another floorboard creak, and instantly understood what Anne was doing. Slowly she started down the hall, her knees wobbling beneath her and her heart throbbing in her chest. When she finally came to the head of the stairs, she had to brace herself against the banister to keep from falling.

  For a moment Anne was forgotten as Helena’s eyes fell on the hated chair lift that had been her only means of getting from one floor to another for the last decade. She’d never intended it for her own use at all—indeed, she should have had it torn out after she’d finally forbidden Marguerite to keep using it so many years ago. But tearing it out hadn’t been necessary, for once she’d told Marguerite that the chair was nothing but a crutch, her daughter had never tried to use it again.

  So she hadn’t torn it out, and when her own body began to fail her, she’d found she needed the lift herself. But not tonight. Tonight she only had to get to the nursery.

  Get there before Anne did.

  She started once more down the long hall, ignoring the sudden sharp flashes of pain shooting through her left arm.

  Anne groped through the darkness of the first floor, still feeling guilty about what she was doing. But she hadn’t been able to fall asleep that night, and long after Kevin had begun to snore softly beside her, she’d lain awake, the image of the locked door across the hall still hanging in front of her eyes.

  “There’s some things best left alone.”

  What could Ruby have meant?

  What could there be in a nursery that required being locked up?

  At last she’d left her bed, slipped out into the dimness of the hall and started toward the stairs. But each time a floorboard had creaked, she stopped short, afraid of being caught. But it was ridiculous! Caught doing what? She wasn’t doing anything wrong!

  And yet even when she had reached the bottom of the stairs, she hadn’t turned on any lights, and now she found herself hesitating outside the kitchen door, listening for any signs that Ruby might still be awake.

  At last satisfied, she pushed the door open and reached for the ring of keys that hung from a hook just inside the door.

  The s
oft clink as it came free from the hook seemed to echo loudly through the kitchen, and she quickly silenced the sound with her hand, then hurried back toward the stairs.

  She could sense something different as soon as she reached the second-floor landing. She paused once more, listening, but the house was quiet, and the insects outside had begun softly chirping once again. And yet, as she started along the corridor toward the nursery door, a sense of unease—stronger than the vague guilt she had felt earlier—pervaded her mind.

  Perhaps she should give it up, and simply put the nursery out of her mind. But she knew she couldn’t.

  Steeling herself for whatever she might find, she walked quickly to the locked door and began trying the keys.

  The eighth one fit.

  She twisted it in the lock, then turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack.

  Inside, the room was pitch black, and Anne felt along the wall for a light switch. A moment later the room filled with a brilliant white light, and Anne pushed the door wide.

  And screamed.

  A shattered crib stood brokenly propped against one wall, the remains of what had apparently once been a bassinet standing next to it. In one corner was a tiny rocking chair, with a full-sized duplicate of it only a few feet away.

  Both chairs had had their upholstery slashed, and wads of cotton batting bulged from the rents in the fabric.

  The remains of a heavy braided rug covered the floor, and a few pictures—hanging crookedly in broken frames behind shattered glass—decorated the walls.

  And in the middle of the room Helena Devereaux stood, her eyes blazing, her body quivering with rage.

  As quickly as it had come, the scream died on Anne’s lips. Her eyes darted around the chaos of the all but destroyed room for a moment, then came to rest on the old woman. “I—I don’t understand,” she whispered, half to herself.

  “Nobody asked you to understand,” Helena’s voice hissed. She took a step toward Anne, her hands, almost like claws, reaching out toward the younger woman. “Nobody asked you to come here and start poking around my house! You have no business in here, woman! Don’t you think this room is kept locked for a reason? Or don’t you care?”

  “But what is it, Mrs. Devereaux?” Anne asked. “What happened to it? Why is it kept locked?”

  “To keep people like you out!” Helena shrieked. She lurched toward Anne once again, tottering forward on her shaking legs, her finger pointing accusingly at Anne. “How dare you come in here? How dare you poke your nose into our affairs!”

  Suddenly her eyes widened and she stepped back as if she had been stricken by a blow. Her face, already red, turned a deep scarlet, and then her hands clamped against her chest. She gasped—a horrible, rattling sound that seemed to jerk her whole body—then her legs crumbled beneath her and she dropped to the floor.

  Her own eyes widening with shock, Anne stared mutely at the fallen woman for a moment, then dropped to her knees next to her mother-in-law and took her hand. Helena, her eyes glowering malevolently despite the pain that wracked her body, snatched her hand away.

  “Don’t touch me!” she rasped.

  Panic rising out of the depths of her belly, Anne rose to her feet and turned toward the door, only to find Kevin, his eyes still clouded with sleep, staring at her uncertainly.

  “Kevin!” Anne cried. “It’s your mother! Something’s happened to her! Hurry!”

  “Her medicine,” Kevin said, brushing past Anne and dropping to the floor beside Helena. “It’s on the table by her bed. Get it!”

  Her own heart pounding now, Anne rushed from the room and ran down the hall to Helena’s suite, pushing open the door so hard it slammed noisily against the wall. She rummaged in the clutter on the night table for a moment, then found the small bottle of pills. She was just about to start back to the nursery when Marguerite, a robe wrapped tightly around her, appeared in the doorway.

  “What is it?” Marguerite asked. “What’s—” Then, for the first time, she saw the empty bed. “Anne? Where’s Mother? What’s happening?”

  “The nursery,” Anne said quickly. “I think—I don’t know—it looks like a heart attack.” She pushed past Marguerite, the bottle clutched in her hand. “Call an ambulance, Marguerite. Quick!” She raced back to the nursery, fumbling with the cap of the bottle as she ran.

  “Water!” Kevin demanded.

  Anne froze for a moment, staring down at Helena’s face. Her complexion had gone dead white now and the fingers of one of her hands were twitching spasmodically, as if trying to grasp at some unseen object. Then, seizing control of herself once more, Anne hurried into her bathroom and returned with a glass of water just as Kevin was shaking three of the pills out of the small vial. He cradled his mother’s head in his lap and tried to put the pills into her mouth, but Helena shoved his hand roughly away.

  “No—” she gasped, her words barely audible through the labored raling of her strangled breath. “It’s too late.” Then her eyes opened wide and she stared up into her son’s face. “Kevin …” she began, and her voice trailed away.

  “I’m here, Mother,” Kevin said. “Don’t worry—you’re going to be all right.”

  Helena’s eyes fixed on his. “Promise me—” she whispered. “Promise me—” Then her body jerked reflexively as another spasm struck her heart.

  “What, Mother?” Kevin asked. “What is it?”

  Suddenly there was a small shriek from the doorway, and Anne looked up to see Marguerite, her face ashen, her knuckles white as she clutched at the door. “Is she—”

  Anne shook her head. “Where’s the doctor?”

  “C-Coming,” Marguerite stammered. She lurched into the room, her lame leg threatening to give way beneath her, and Anne hurried to her side, supporting her as she moved toward her stricken mother.

  “No!” Helena gasped, her eyes lighting venomously on Marguerite. “Not her! Get her out! Out!”

  Her eyes widening with shock, Marguerite stepped back, covering her mouth with her hand. “Mama,” she cried. “Don’t die, Mama. You can’t …”

  Once more Helena seemed to rally. “I am dying,” she gasped. “Don’t you want to watch me, Marguerite? Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for all these years?” Then her body contracted once more and her hands flew again to her breast. Writhing in pain now, she clutched at Kevin, her breathing reduced to short rasping gasps. “Promise me …” she managed once again.

  Kevin drew a sharp breath as he heard his mother’s words, but as her hands closed like twin vises on his, he could do nothing but nod.

  “Marguerite,” the old woman gasped. “Watch out for Marguerite.…”

  Her eyes met his, and for the last time in his life Kevin felt the strange power of his mother’s will reach out to close around him.

  Even as she lay dying, he wanted to pull away from her, wanted to escape from her influence. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t escape her as a child, and he couldn’t escape her now.

  The last mighty stroke of the seizure took Helena then, and she screamed out loud as a searing pain exploded from her chest into every extremity of her body. A vein exploded in her forehead and an angry purplish stain spread beneath the skin. And then, as the scream died on her lips, her grasp on Kevin’s hands relaxed, her hands fell away, her mouth dropped open, and her head lolled back on Kevin’s lap. The anger drained from her eyes, and she stared sightlessly upward until her son gently closed their lids.

  Marguerite, whimpering softly against the wall by the door, seemed to sense the change.

  “M-Mama?” she asked, her voice uncertain now, and almost childlike. “Mama?”

  Kevin looked helplessly up at his older sister. “She’s gone, Marguerite.”

  “Noooo …”

  The word was wrenched from Marguerite’s lips in an anguished wail, and she pulled herself away from Anne’s supporting grip to lurch across the room. Her lame leg twisted oddly sideways, she dropped to the floor and gathered her mother into her
arms. “No, Mama,” she whispered. “You can’t leave me. You can’t—You can never leave me, Mama. I won’t let you! I won’t let you!” Sobbing brokenly, she buried her face in Helena’s still chest, then hugged her body tighter, as if trying to lend her own warmth to Helena’s corpse.

  Kevin started to reach out to her, but suddenly Ruby appeared at the door. She stepped forward quickly, her hand stopping his own. Their eyes met, and Kevin found his gaze held by the deep dark eyes of the old servant. “Leave her be, Mr. Kevin,” Ruby said quietly. “She’s got to deal with this in her own way. And she will, Mr. Kevin. She will.”

  Kevin tried to protest, but Ruby shook her head. “I know her, Mr. Kevin. I know her a lot better than you do. I been here all her life and know how she is. We got to leave her be.”

  Sighing heavily, she shifted to look down at the still, frail body that was all that was left of her mistress. “It’ll be all right,” she said almost to herself. “I’ll make sure it is, Miz Helena. I’ll make sure.” Then, taking Kevin by the hand, she led him out of the ruined nursery.

  Anne, who had stood stunned near the door through it all, stared numbly at Marguerite and Helena for a moment, then turned to go. But before she was quite out of the room, Marguerite spoke, her voice bleak and empty.

  “She’s left me, Anne,” she said quietly.

  Anne turned back then, and found Marguerite looking at her, her eyes unblinking and filled with a pain Anne had never seen before.

  “How could she do that?” Marguerite asked then. “How could she leave me? I needed her, Anne. I needed her.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Anne had watched in amazement as the cars streamed across the causeway on the afternoon of Helena Devereaux’s funeral, but upon reflection, decided she really shouldn’t have been surprised at the turnout. After all, even in the face of the obvious depression of the area, the Devereauxes had still been the first family of the county for nearly two centuries, and certainly the death of the matriarch would be considered an event of some note. And, she also realized, most of the people who came over to the island for the service hadn’t actually seen Helena in better than a decade, and in all likelihood had no idea of what an evil-tempered harridan she had become. Certainly Marguerite would never have complained, and unless Anne had thoroughly misjudged Ruby, the old servant would have been just as discreet as Marguerite herself.