THREE
She must have screamed, and then she must have fainted, because the next thing Daphne knew she was on the floor, and a woman was kneeling beside her, a woman she didn’t recognize, and the woman was shaking her.
“Come now, what’s wrong?” the woman was asking. “What’s wrong with you?”
Daphne tried to sit up. As soon as she did, the memory of that hideous clown came back to her, and she started to tremble again.
“No,” she muttered. “Get it away from me! It killed that girl... .”
“What girl are you talking about? Who killed a girl?”
Daphne looked up into the woman’s face. She was an older woman, maybe sixty, her gray hair tied behind her head in a tight bun. Her hair was pulled so tight, in fact, that her skin seemed to be stretched, her thin eyebrows drawn up in an expression of perpetual surprise.
“That clown,” Daphne managed to say, and cast her eyes back toward the closet.
The woman stood. “What are you talking about? I heard you scream, and rushed over here.”
“I opened the closet and saw a clown standing inside,” Daphne said. But the light was now off—she had turned it on, she was sure of that—and she could no longer make anything out in the gloomy darkness of the small space.
“Of course you saw a clown,” the woman said. “You saw this.”
She reached into the closet and switched on the light again. Daphne gasped and recoiled, certain she’d spot that monstrous creature again standing there.
But there was no clown.
At least, not a living, breathing one.
At the far end of the closet there was a small plastic figure of Ronald McDonald, the fast-food chain mascot, propped against a collection of other toys: Rollerblades, board games, a baseball mitt, half a dozen teddy bears.
“No,” Daphne said, standing up now and looking inside the closet, her eyes trained on the Ronald McDonald doll. “That’s not what I saw. I saw a real clown.... It was as tall as I was ... no, taller!”
The older woman narrowed her eyes at Daphne. “It’s not heartening for me to think that my young nephew is going to be supervised by such an unstable teacher such as yourself.” She sniffed. “I assume that is who you are. Christopher’s new governess?”
“Yes,” Daphne said, suddenly feeling terribly embarrassed.
Had she, in her anxiety over meeting the family, not to mention the lingering terror of finding Maggie’s body at the inn, imagined she had seen a clown? Had she looked in the closet, spotted that silly doll, and then hallucinated?
But someone had called my name
, she thought.
Someone lured me in here.
“I am Abigail Witherspoon,” the older woman said. “My brother informed me you would be arriving today. I expected a seasoned, unflappable professional. Not a silly little girl.”
“I’m sorry, but I truly thought I saw—”
“You will need to be on your guard much more than that,” Abigail told her. “It is only a fair warning. Christopher is known for his pranks. It’s why he was tossed out of that school in Portland, for all the mischief he caused. But I assume my brother has told you all of that.”
In fact, he hadn’t. Daphne knew practically nothing about the boy. Or his father. Or this very strange house called Witherswood.
“I will do you a favor, Miss May,” Abigail said. “I won’t report this little episode to my brother. It would upset him to think he might have made a mistake. But I give you some important advice. Do not let your emotions get the better of you in this house. It would surely mean your downfall.”
Daphne didn’t reply. What was there to say? She felt silly and foolish to have been fooled by a toy. If she
had
been fooled. She hadn’t hallucinated someone calling her name. Of that much she was sure.
“Come along,” Abigail said briskly. “I was heading downstairs, where I understand the entire clan has gathered in the parlor to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Daphne said, taking a deep breath. “Thank you for not saying anything for now.”
“You will either prove first impressions wrong,” Abigail said, “or you will be gone from here in two weeks’ time.”
She whisked out of the door. The older woman was wearing a gold paisley caftan, tied at the waist with a black sash. She walked ahead of Daphne, choosing not to speak further. Daphne followed, trying to force the image of the clown from her mind.
I imagined it. I was freaked out about what happened at the inn.
But then who lured me into that room?
They made their way down the stairs, back into the foyer where Daphne had arrived. They crossed the marble floor toward the parlor, where the fire still blazed and cast a flickering golden glow over the room. Only a few dim amber lamps had been lit, so the light in the room was muted, dominated by shadows. But even before they had entered, Daphne could see the room was filled with people.
“Daphne!”
The voice was familiar and, given what Daphne had just gone through, welcome. Ashlee bounded up to her, grasped both her hands in her own, and gave her a huge smile. She still wore the same blue jeans but had changed out of her flimsy T-shirt into a bulky green turtleneck sweater.
Abigail Witherspoon retreated to a far corner of the room, pouring herself a glass of brandy and then taking a seat. Meanwhile Ashlee was leading Daphne through the center of the room, past the curious eyes of half a dozen others, all of whom were partially concealed by shadows. They headed for a man who was seated in a large wingback chair beside the fireplace. He was smoking a pipe. Fluffy rings of gray smoke floated up past his head in steady succession.
“Pete,” Ashlee said, “may I introduce to you Daphne May?”
The master of Witherswood turned to look up at her. His hair was snow white, a big thick mane combed back from his forehead and reaching all the way down to his collar. He was clean-shaven, and his face looked both incredibly young and unspeakably ancient at the same time. His skin might not have been wrinkled in the slightest, but it was as thin as tracing paper. Even in this light Daphne could detect the intricate network of blue veins and red capillaries crisscrossing just below the surface of the skin. But Mr. Witherspoon’s eyes were those of a child’s, big and round and bright, filled with curiosity at seeing Daphne, like a little boy might be when presented a new toy.
“Welcome to Witherswood,” Peter Witherspoon said in a raspy voice, tattered by years of tobacco smoke. He stood briefly, to accept Daphne’s hand in his right hand, while holding his pipe out in his left.
“Thank you, sir,” Daphne replied.
The old man sat back down. “Have you met the terror yet?” he asked before replacing his pipe in his mouth.
Daphne’s heart jumped a little. She had met a couple of terrors so far.
Ashlee laughed. “No, Pete, she hasn’t met Christopher yet.” To Daphne she said, “He’ll be down momentarily. At least I hope he will. He’s a bit of willful child, as you’ll see.”
Daphne just smiled. She thought it odd that servants like Ashlee called Mr. Witherspoon “Pete.” She wondered what she would call him.
“May I extend you my apologies about for my driver’s inaction this afternoon.” Pete said. “I have been informed he failed to meet you at the station.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Witherspoon. It was no problem to take a cab.”
“No, it’s not all right. He had explicit instructions to pick you up. Ashlee said she wrote them in his book. He claims to have missed the entry, but I have checked, and it was right there. In red ink, in fact. There was no way he could have missed it. It’s not like him to be so neglectful, and he has been disciplined.”
“Oh, I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble,” Daphne said.
The old man lifted a hand, fingers twisted with arthritis. “He is the one who caused the trouble.”
Ashlee seemed to sense Daphne’s discomfort, so she took her by the arm. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the clan,” she said, leading Daphne toward the others. “Everyone, this is Daphne May, and I’d like you all to welcome her to Witherswood.”
Now that her eyes had adjusted somewhat to the dimness of the firelight, Daphne could make out the others, all of whom stared at her as intently as their patriarch did. “This is Louella Kent,” Ashlee said, gesturing to a plump woman of about fifty, who looked up at Daphne with kind eyes and a dimpled smile. “Pete’s younger sister.”
Daphne shook Louella’s hand. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Kent.”
“And you, too, my dear, welcome,” she said.
“And next to her is her son, Donovan,” Ashlee said.
Daphne’s eyes moved over to the young man in the next chair. Donovan Kent was incredibly handsome, probably twenty-six or twenty-seven, with thick black hair and blue eyes that seemed to burn holes through the near darkness. He stood and clasped Daphne’s outstretched hand between both of his.
“Welcome to Witherswood, dear Daphne,” he said warmly.
“And this is Donovan’s fiancée, Suzanne,” Ashlee said, continuing on with the introductions.
A pretty Asian woman, probably Korean or Japanese, greeted Daphne with a rather pinched smile. Daphne smiled back.
Daphne noticed how Pete Witherspoon’s bright childlike eyes stayed fixed on her the whole time she was moving about meeting the family, studying her as he puffed on his pipe. It made her somewhat uneasy to be looked at like that.
“Over here we have Ben Witherspoon, Pete’s nephew,” Ashlee was saying as she and Daphne took a few steps around a coffee table. A tall blond man stood and Daphne grasped his outstretched hand.
“I hope my little cousin doesn’t run you too ragged,” Ben said, giving her a friendly smile. “If you ever my help in corralling him, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said shyly.
“And in the corner over there ...” With a rather dismissive wave of her hand, Ashlee indicated a young man who Daphne now noticed was seated in a wheelchair with his face averted from the rest of them. “... is Gabriel Witherspoon, Ben’s brother.”
The man in the wheelchair didn’t look up at her, just lifted a few fingers as if to wave to her. Daphne started to walk over to him so she could take his hand as she had all the others, but Ashlee stopped her, shaking her head. Instead, she took Daphne’s arm once more and led her back toward Pete by the fire.
“And I see that you’ve already made the acquaintance of Abigail, since you came in together,” Ashlee said, nodding over at Abigail Witherspoon, who sat drinking her brandy.
“Yes,” Daphne said, “We met upstairs.”
She looked over at the older woman, but Abigail did not return her gaze.
“So that does it for the Witherspoons,” Ashlee said as they returned to stand at Pete’s side. “Except for Christopher, of course.”
“And Mrs. Witherspoon,” Daphne said.
They were all quiet, looking at her. Pete Witherspoon’s bright eyes seemed to grow even wider as he looked up at Daphne.
“Your wife,” Daphne said, looking down at the old man in the chair. “Where is your wife?”
Suddenly she was startled by a bolt of laughter from behind her. It was Ashlee. She was looking at Daphne with the most amused expression on her face.
“Sweetie, you silly goose!
I’m
Pete’s wife!”
Daphne felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Behind her she could hear the others chuckle. But no one laughed harder than Pete Witherspoon.
“I’m sorry,” Daphne said. “I assumed ... oh, dear, please forgive me, I’m sorry.”
“No apologies necessary, sweetie,” Ashlee said. “I guess I don’t look like your typical ‘mistress of the great house.’ ” She let out a whoop of laughter again. “That’s why I was so pleased that someone my age was coming to live here!”
Daphne tried to smile. She couldn’t help but notice the way the others were looking at Ashlee. The men seemed somewhat embarrassed. Louella Kent looked troubled or possibly worried about something, but both Abigail and Suzanne looked outright disdainful. Daphne intuited there was not a lot of love in the family for Pete Witherspoon’s young bride.
“Of course, Suzanne isn’t
that
much older than I am, are you Suzanne?” Ashlee said, smiling a sweet little grin over at the woman seated beside Donovan. “But see, Suzanne went to Vassar and I can’t even do long division, so I’m sure my incessant blatherings must bore her—and everyone else in this house—to tears.”
“Don’t worry, Ashlee dear,” Suzanne said, standing up and walking across the room to tend to the fire, which was starting to sputter. “You are
never
boring.”
“You are so sweet to say that, Suzanne,” Ashlee said.
They hate each other
, Daphne realized.
Donovan had come over to the fireplace to help his fiancée, and probably show his support of her, Daphne thought. “Ashlee, baby, you brought a whole new life to this house when you arrived,” he said, placing his arm around Suzanne’s shoulder. “We can’t thank you enough.”