The Inheritance Page 8

  At that moment, the distant bark of a dog made Holly turn around. The servants were still at the base of the steps, smiling up at her. Kevin, standing beside the limousine in his gray uniform, caught her eye and winked. Beyond him, the front lawn rolled away in all directions, and she could see the sky and Long Island Sound through the light flurry of snow that continued to fall. Down the drive, near the edge of the forest, the blond boy and the German shepherd from the stable stood, watching the scene. As she looked at them, the dog wagged its tail and barked again. She smiled and waved. The boy did not wave back, nor did he smile. He merely nodded once. He continued to stand quite still in the falling snow, watching her.

  Holly turned back to face the open door that loomed before her. Ignoring the other woman’s extended hand, she took a deep breath, bracing herself, preparing herself for whatever awaited her on the other side of the door. Then, summoning another smile to her lips, she stepped across the threshold into Randall House.

  We all stood there that cold, snowy afternoon, watching Holly go into the house. She walked forward into the front hall, her white coat visible for only a moment before it was engulfed by the shadows, and she was gone. The image was unsettling, prophetic: it almost seemed as though the big house on the headland had devoured her, swallowed her alive.

  There was a moment, just before she moved, when everything might have been changed. She might have felt something, become aware of the warmth that cut through the frigid air, a subtle but unmistakable undercurrent of malice. It was certainly there that day: I could feel it myself. But Holly apparently did not feel it, or she would never have entered. She would never have come here at all.

  That was my perception then, but time has altered it, as time has altered so many things. There were such goings-on at Randall House, so many plots and counterplots, and the ever-present, evergrowing threat of violence. It has taken me a long while to sort out everything that happened later, between that second week of November and the end of the year. That fateful New Year’s Eve, with the police and the paramedics swarming all over the house, the flashing red and blue lights of their vehicles glinting on the snow in the driveway. The still figure on the carpet in the library, and the other sprawled on the black and white tiles of the Great Hall. And upstairs, the splash of blood on one bedroom wall, darkening as it dried. But on that day in November, I didn’t know how it would affect us all. I didn’t realize that people were going to die.

  I was to realize it, though, soon enough.

  I see it all clearly from this distance in time. I know as well as you that it had really begun earlier, quite a while earlier, and you may think you know the rest. Well, if all you know are the rumors and the newspaper accounts, you don’t know the rest of the story. Trust me.

  Holly’s arrival was the catalyst, the factor that set all the plots in motion. That was the official beginning, and everything else was destined to follow. There was no escaping it, I suppose. We can never escape destiny. If anything, we are drawn inexorably toward it, as Holly was drawn to Randall House.

  And then she went inside.

  PART TWO

  HOLLY AND THE IVY

  CHAPTER FOUR

  First Impressions

  “Good morning, Ms. Randall.”

  It was the first sound she heard, and the first image she saw when she opened her eyes was the smiling face of the upstairs maid hovering above her. Her great-aunt Alicia had been awakened thus, she supposed, by—she had to think a moment—Martha. This woman’s name was Martha. She summoned a weak smile and bade Martha good morning.

  When the maid was gone, she sat up in the big four-poster bed and gazed slowly around the room. She’d barely noticed it last night when she’d first been brought here. She’d been given a quick tour of the downstairs rooms by Aunt Catherine before being led into the huge dining room for a sumptuous dinner she’d barely touched. The house, the new relatives, the servants: everything was a blur. She’d been overwhelmed, exhausted by the glut of sensations that coursed through her as each new thing arrived before her eyes. Now, rested, in the bright light of morning, she studied her new bedroom. It was beautiful, the most beautiful bedroom she’d ever seen.

  She was going to like it here.

  Someone had unpacked for her. She got out of bed and made a tour of the room, stopping first at the little table in the corner where Martha had placed a silver tray bearing a pot of coffee, a cup, milk, sugar, and a single red rose in a crystal bud vase. Her new dresses and coats were in the walk-in closet, and her blouses and sweaters and underwear were neatly arranged in the drawers of the mahogany bureau. Her makeup case was on the vanity table between the big front windows, resting beside a beautiful collection of silver-plated brushes and combs. She picked up a brush and inspected the engraved initials on the back: ELR. She wondered whose initials they were, whose combs and brushes were so carefully, lovingly laid out for her. She would ask Catherine at breakfast.…

  This thought propelled her into the bathroom, where she took a quick shower and dried her hair with the brand-new blow-dryer she found there. She brushed her teeth, noting that the toothpaste, soap, and shampoo that had been provided were not her usual brands. She decided to take a trip into town after breakfast.

  She smiled at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she thought this, realizing that all she had to do was give one of the servants a list of everything she wanted, and it would silently, magically appear. This was the way things were done here at Randall House, here in her new life. But no; she wanted to explore the little waterfront village she’d only glimpsed from the car yesterday.

  She donned new clothes—jeans and boots and a beautiful blue sweater Missy had insisted she buy. This first full day would be one of exploring, the town in the morning and the grounds of the estate in the afternoon. When she was ready, she left the room and made her way down the long hallway, past the other bedroom doors to the gallery above the Great Hall.

  She paused at the marble balcony, staring down at the immense room with its black and white marble tiles, rising up, up, the entire three-story height of the building to the domed ceiling high above her. Her gaze rose slowly to the glittering chandeliers. Then, shaking her head in sheer wonder, she came around the gallery to the top of the stairs.

  As she descended the red-carpeted staircase, she was reminded of one of her favorite movies. In Anastasia, Ingrid Bergman had come down a staircase exactly like this one to greet the waiting reporters. It was the press conference where it was announced that the suicidal, amnesiac former mental patient had been verified and accepted as the true Grand Duchess, the youngest daughter of the czar, the heir to the Russian throne. When Holly reached the bottom of the stairs, she shrugged, amused, remembering more recent news reports. The bodies of the royal family had been found in the forest near Ekaterinburg. Now, with the advent of DNA testing, it had been proved beyond all doubt that the woman was not Anastasia, that she had been an impostor all along. Oh, well, she thought as she turned in the direction of the dining room, no matter. She preferred the film’s romantic ending to prosaic, pathetic reality.

  She smiled at this thought, and then she went in to join her new family for breakfast.

  The old man watched the young woman descend the front steps below him and walk forward to the waiting car.

  Yesterday he had watched from this window as she got out of the limousine, but it had been snowing and she had been surrounded by people, so he’d had only a brief glimpse of her face. But he had seen the face, and the lovely, warm smile. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  It wasn’t the limousine today, he noted. She had apparently instructed Kevin Jessel to bring round the blue BMW sedan, and to lose the formal gray uniform as well. Kevin stood now with his hand on the open passenger door, waiting, clad in his usual black leather bomber jacket, jeans, and boots.

  This told the old man something else about the new mistress of Randall House, something that might turn out to be crucial.
She was not brought up as the Randalls had been, so she did not stand on formal ceremony. She obviously preferred to treat everyone as an equal, even her new servants. She apparently had the more practical, more democratic personality of someone who was from what had once been referred to as the middle class. Well, it was the middle class, he reminded himself, and not a bad thing: she would not be afraid of a challenge, or of a potential mess. For his purposes, that might prove to be a very good thing.…

  He held aside the curtain, watching the pantomime below from the upstairs window. Kevin grinned and said something as the girl arrived beside him, and she replied. Then, just before she allowed the young man to hand her into the front passenger seat, she turned around and glanced briefly up at the house behind her. He ducked swiftly behind the curtain, but not before he had another look at her face.

  Oh, dear, he thought. Oh, dear me, that girl is most definitely a Randall. Yes, it is she.

  He peered through the curtains again. The young man ran around to the driver’s side and got in, and the BMW glided away around the curve and down the snowy drive toward the front gates. In moments, it had disappeared beyond the trees.

  So, he reasoned, she is on her way to see the town that bears her family’s name.

  Her family …

  He thought about his sister again. He stood there for several moments, head bowed, and presently the tears of impotent frustration arrived at the corners of his eyes and made their way down his desiccated, disfigured cheeks. But then he collected himself. He drew himself up and swiftly, roughly wiped the useless tears away. He was an old man, and uncertain, but he would not, must not give in to despair.

  And now, at last, he began to form his plan of action, knowing as he did that it would not be easy. This new character, this Holly Randall, might be the answer he needed, and he would have to ascertain that as soon as possible. In order to do that, he would have to do something he had not done in years, something he had long ago forbidden himself to do. But now, he realized, it was necessary.

  He would have to let the young woman see him. He would have to let her see his face.

  It would not be easy, but it would have to be endured. He had to meet Holly Randall. Talk to her. Get to know her.

  Warn her.…

  “So,” Kevin said, apparently to break the silence in the car, “how was your first night in your new home?”

  Holly smiled, gazing out at the snowy trees that lined the road into town. “All right, I guess. It’s a beautiful house, and my bedroom is gorgeous.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but, I mean, how was it? You know, being there with—with—”

  “With my new family, you mean,” she finished for him. “Ah, well, it was a little … strange. But I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly. Everybody is being very nice. Your mother is lovely, and Uncle John and Aunt Catherine—Cathy—are bending over backward to make me feel welcome.”

  Kevin nodded and glanced over at her. “Well, that’s good. Now, where would you like to go first?”

  She thought a moment. “How about the town square, or whatever they call it?”

  “The Green.”

  “The Green,” she repeated, savoring it. “That’s wonderful. Yes, the Green. You can just drop me off there, if you would, and then I think I can manage on my own.”

  He glanced over at her again. “I thought I could show you around the village, if you—well, if you don’t mind some company.”

  Holly smiled. It was what she’d been hoping he’d say.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “If you’re sure you want to. I mean.…”

  Now Kevin smiled too. “At your service, ma’am.”

  They laughed together, and it was settled. He drove into the center of the town and parked in a little lot on the edge of the square. As she got out of the car, Holly noticed that the sun was shining brightly down on the trees and the bandstand in the park across Main Street. Even so, she immediately pulled the hood of her white wool coat up over her head and put on her gloves. Sun or no sun, she decided, this place is a hell of a lot colder than California.

  Their first stop was the drugstore. She remembered it from the drive through town yesterday, and she immediately turned in that direction. Kevin held the old-fashioned oak and glass door for her as she paused outside, staring past the arched gilt letters on the picture window—MILLER’S PHARMACY, EST. 1927—at the quaint display inside. Dusting powder and bath salts. Holly smiled and stepped past Kevin into the delightfully Old World, wood-paneled, dimly lit chemist’s shop.

  There were five people in the big, well-stocked room. A middle-aged man and woman in identical white smocks were behind two large oak counters, and each was waiting on a customer. The woman was helping a heavyset, elderly woman at the perfume counter, while the man stood at the back counter facing a pretty young woman with a well-bundled baby in a pink plastic stroller. A bell tinkled above the door as Holly and Kevin came in, and the woman behind the counter looked over from her customer and smiled warmly.

  “Good morning, Kevin,” she called. “How’s your father feeling today?”

  “Much better, thank you, Mrs. Miller. Hello, Mr. Miller. I have a new customer for you.” Kevin smiled over at Holly. “This is Holly Randall.”

  Holly stepped forward, smiling. “How do you—do?” She stopped, the words dying on her lips, as she regarded the people before her.

  Everyone, with the exception of the sleeping baby in the stroller, had turned at the same moment, and all conversation in the room stopped. Holly stood there, her smile fading, as the four adults regarded her. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Mrs. Miller blinked and said, “How do you do?”

  Holly forced her smile to reappear. “What a lovely shop you have!” she said, coming forward. “We don’t have places like this where I come from. Just, you know, chain stores with plastic counters and industrial lighting. This is beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Miller said, and then she turned back to her customer, who resumed her inspection of the various scents displayed on the counter. The woman with the stroller handed a slip of paper to Mr. Miller, who went off into a back room to fill the prescription.

  Holly glanced over at Kevin, who shrugged. Then she pulled the list she’d made from her purse and went quickly around the room. Soap, toothpaste, shampoo, makeup, tampons, vitamins, aspirin. For an old-fashioned shop, the pharmacy was well-stocked with a wide variety of brands. By the time she and Kevin came over to place her purchases before Mrs. Miller, the other two customers had gone. Holly smiled again at the woman and produced her new MasterCard.

  “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Randall,” Mrs. Miller mumbled as she quickly placed everything in a paper shopping bag with the shop’s logo on the side. “I’ll just put it on your account.” She held out the bag, which Kevin took from her, but she did not smile. “Good day.”

  “Thank you,” Holly murmured before turning and fairly running toward the door.

  She had to get out of there.

  She heard Kevin and Mrs. Miller laughing and exchanging good-byes behind her as she pulled open the door and went out into the cold air of Main Street. She stood before the pharmacy, her back to it, breathing slowly in and out, calming herself. From the moment Kevin had announced her identity to the people in the shop, not one of them had smiled. The proprietress’s greeting had been perfunctory, distant, cold. Never before had Holly been made to feel so politely, formally unwelcome.

  Well, that isn’t exactly true, she mused, remembering a young man in college in San Diego, and his rich parents. She had been invited to his family home in Palm Springs to meet them, and she’d sat through a horrible, unendurable dinner party during which she’d felt the eyes of everyone at the table scrutinizing her, assessing her, dismissing her. That had been the beginning of the end of her brief liaison with that particular college sweetheart.

  By the time Kevin joined her on the sidewalk, Holly had forgotten all about Gregory Sanford III and his con
descending clan. She glanced at Kevin, wondering briefly whether she should mention how she felt about what had just happened. She even considered asking him if there was another drugstore in the area where she could do her shopping from now on. But then she thought better of it and looked away from him, in the direction of the water.

  “I want to see the harbor,” she said, and she walked away, leaving him to follow with the shopping bag.

  The waterfront, down the little paved walk beside the sloping side street, was beautiful. She emerged from the walk onto a tiny, cobbled seaside road that ran along an esplanade. Across from her was a miniature marina, with three parallel wooden docks jutting out from the rocky shore. There were perhaps twenty small craft here, tied to the docks or moored nearby. Sailing vessels, most of them, with tall masts rising into the gray sky above the Sound. A few men were about, busy on the boats or chatting idly in front of the wooden structures that faced the water on this side of the road: Bob’s Bait & Tackle and a seafood shop/restaurant called, by someone with a sense of humor, Herringbone. The chill wind from the water whipped past her as she gazed off to her right, toward the far end of the cove. There was a larger configuration of docks, wider and more solid-looking, in the water at that end, and behind them, at the base of the hills that ringed the town, was a big, square, three-story clapboard structure with a wraparound wooden porch and many green-shuttered windows.

  “Randall Inn,” Kevin said as he arrived beside her and followed her gaze with his own.

  She nodded, pointing. “Why are those big docks down at that end deserted? All the boats seem to be over here, at the smaller place.”

  He shrugged. “Those docks were built for bigger boats—you know, freighters and fishing scows. And they’re not safe anymore. They haven’t been used since long before I was born, since the fish company went public and relocated upstate. The inn was built on the site where the old packing plant used to be. Your great-grandfather tore it down years ago.”