Down a Dark Hall, Page 2

  “It sounds exciting,” Kit’s mother said. “I’m going to expect fantastic letters from my daughter telling us about the adventures she has here.”

  There was a break in the conversation as Lucretia came in with a tray. Kit took her glass, happy to have something to do with her hands. The terrible feeling that had come upon her at her first glimpse of Blackwood had somewhat faded, but the shadow of it still remained.

  “How many students are there going to be?” she asked.

  “That is never a certainty,” Madame Duret told her. “There are always first-day dropouts who get homesick at the thought of leaving their parents. We’ll know the final count at Orientation tomorrow. Personally, I think that going away to school is an educational experience that should be part of the life of every young woman.”

  The conversation continued, and Kit sat, sipping her Coke, only half-listening. Tomorrow, she thought, there will be other girls in this room. Perhaps, with young voices ringing through the halls, laughing and chatting and watching the giant television, the atmosphere at Blackwood would be different. Maybe, as Dan had suggested, there would be someone among the new arrivals who would be the same kind of friend as Tracy, close and companionable and always ready to share a good time.

  Dan glanced at his watch. “I hate to rush things, but we have a long drive ahead of us. I’d better go out and bring in Kit’s suitcases.”

  “Lucretia will show you where to bring them.” Madame Duret rose from her chair. “While you are getting the luggage, perhaps Mrs. Rolland would enjoy a quick look at Blackwood.”

  “I’d love it,” Kit’s mother told her. “This is a fascinating old mansion. Did you have to do a great deal of renovating?”

  “Not as much as one might suppose,” Madame said, leading the way out into the hall. “The original building was well constructed. The only actual rebuilding that had to be done was in the upstairs dormitory wing where there had once been a fire. The stone structure withstood it well, but the wood paneling was burned away and the furniture had to be replaced. I tried as much as I could to duplicate the style of the original pieces.”

  As she led the way down the hall, she gestured to various doorways, some closed, some open. “The room we just left is the living room or, as I prefer to call it, the parlor. This door to my right leads to my office and beyond that lies a suite of rooms that I share with my son, Jules. There is a guest residence out behind which has been converted to apartments for the other members of the faculty.

  “Here is the dining room, and on the far side of that is the kitchen. These doors lead to classrooms.” She paused at one door, opened it, and flicked on the light. A baby grand piano took up one whole corner of the room, while along the far wall there stood an array of musical instruments. Music racks, comfortable chairs, and a large and strangely high-tech recording system completed the furnishings.

  “This, of course, is the music room,” Madame Duret said. “Are you musically inclined, Kathryn?”

  “I had a year of piano,” Kit said, “back when I was eleven. I can’t say I was any good at it.”

  “You just got impatient,” her mother said. “You didn’t want to take the time to practice. I hope that here at Blackwood you’ll take advantage of the chance to get some musical training. It’s something that will give you pleasure all your life.”

  “We devote much time and effort to the study of the arts,” Madame told them, turning off the light and drawing the door closed. “If you had more time you would enjoy browsing through the library, which is very extensive. The paintings throughout the house represent a hobby of mine, collecting little-known works of famous artists. But I know that what you are most interested in seeing is where Kathryn herself will be living.”

  The stairway was curved and at its head an immense mirror seemed to double the length of the upstairs hallway. At the hall’s end was the stained-glass window that had been evident from the driveway, and the sun slanted through it, lighting the hallway in rainbow hues.

  A series of doors opened onto the hall from both sides. Madame Duret stopped in front of one of these, fumbled in her skirt pocket for a key, and inserted it in the brass lock. She turned it, withdrew it, and handed the key to Kit.

  “We believe in privacy at Blackwood,” she said. “Each student carries her own room key and is encouraged to keep her room locked when she is not in it. And here, Kathryn, is where you will be making your nest.”

  She pushed the door open, and Kit heard her mother catch her breath. She herself could not contain a small gasp of surprise, for the room was far more elaborate than anything she could have imagined.

  The largest piece of furniture was a bed of carved dark wood with a high canopy of rich red velvet. Beside it sat a small table bearing an ornate lamp with a ruffled shade. Heavy gold draperies bordered a window, and against the opposite wall there stood a walnut bureau, over which hung an oval mirror with a gilded frame. A Persian carpet covered the floor, and under the window there stood a rolltop desk with a study lamp.

  “If this is a dorm room,” Mrs. Rolland exclaimed, “it’s not the kind I ever dreamed of in school!”

  “It’s beautiful,” Kit agreed, stunned in spite of herself. Tentatively she reached out and let her hand caress the bedspread. “Is this real velvet?”

  “It is, indeed,” Madame Duret told her. “We want Blackwood to be more than just a school for our students; we want it to be an experience they will carry with them long after they have left its halls. We feel that beauty enriches the spirit and that young people should learn to be at ease with lovely things.”

  “But there’s just one bed.” The thought occurred to Kit suddenly. “Won’t I have a roommate?”

  “Not at Blackwood,” Madame said. “All our girls have private rooms and baths. I think privacy makes for better study habits, don’t you?”

  “I guess so,” Kit said, recalling the plans she and Tracy had made to room together. It was true that they would probably have done more talking than studying, but it would have been fun.

  “Hello, there!” Dan’s voice called from the top of the stairs. “I’ve got a couple of bags here that feel as though they must be stuffed with bricks. Where do you want them?”

  “Down here, dear,” Kit’s mother called back. “Come and see Kit’s room. You won’t believe it!”

  “Wow!” Dan appeared in the doorway, a suitcase in each hand. “This looks more like a palace than a school. You won’t be able to toss your stuff all over the place here, Kit.”

  “We trust our girls to take care of their rooms,” Madame Duret said easily. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must go down and speak to our kitchen staff about dinner. We never dine late, Kathryn, because the girl who does the cooking lives in the village and has to drive home every evening. Dinner will be served at six thirty in the dining room.”

  “Okay,” Kit said. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Madame Duret,” Kit’s mother said. “We’ll stop and say good-bye before we leave.”

  They all stood quietly, listening to the headmistress’s quick, strong footsteps as she hurried off down the hall.

  “Quite a woman,” Dan commented in a low voice. “Imagine what a job it must have been to turn this ancient place into a modern school.”

  “I’m certainly impressed.” Kit’s mother turned to her. “Honey—” And then suddenly she pulled her daughter to her, and Kit could hear the note of pleading in her voice. “Kit, dear, you will be happy here, won’t you? I’d never enjoy a moment of our trip if I thought you weren’t. We can make other arrangements, even if it means taking a different cruise later. Your happiness is the most important thing.”

  At that moment, Kit felt her resentment leave her. She had won, and she could not take advantage of the winning. Putting her arms around her mother, she gave her a warm hug.

  “Of course, I’ll like it,” she said thickly. “You and Dan have a wonderful honeymoon. You deserve it, Mom, if anybody ever did. I
’m sorry I’ve been so annoying. I’ll be happy here—I promise.”

  There was a question nagging at the back of her mind. But Kit let it slide away now and become forgotten. Anyway, it didn’t really matter why her bedroom door at Blackwood had a lock on the outside—but not on the inside.

  The bed was high and beautiful, but not particularly comfortable. Kit lay back upon the velvet bedspread and stared up at the wine-colored canopy. Somebody—was it Poe?—had written a story about a bed exactly like this one in which the canopy had sunk slowly at night to smother the person unlucky enough to be sleeping beneath it. They had read it last year in literature class and there had been squeals of incredulous laughter. Now the story didn’t seem so funny.

  I don’t like canopies, Kit decided, and I don’t like hard mattresses. But I am going to like it at Blackwood even if it kills me. I made Mom a promise.

  Her mother and Dan had been gone for over an hour now, and still she had not begun to unpack her suitcases. She climbed onto the bed at first simply to see what it felt like and, once there, she had remained, staring up at the canopy and thinking.

  She had been annoying over the past weeks. She could admit it now, and she was ashamed of herself. Her mother had been through enough hard work and loneliness since the death of Kit’s father, and she deserved any happiness that came her way. Maybe Dan wasn’t the person Kit herself would have gone out and selected for a stepfather, but if her mother loved him, then that was all that mattered. In all fairness, no man her mother chose as a second husband would have pleased Kit completely. She had been close to her father and no one could ever take his place.

  She had been the last person to see him. No one had ever believed that, but it was true. She had been seven at the time and had awakened in the night to find her father standing at the foot of her bed, gazing down at her. Although the room had been dark, she had been able to see him clearly, his head bent, his gray eyes wistful, and a world of love reflected in his square, strong-featured face. Kit had drawn herself up on her elbows and stared at him.

  “Dad?” she said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago on business.”

  When he didn’t answer she shivered, realizing suddenly how cold the room had become even though it was midsummer. She lay back upon the pillow, pulling the sheet and bedspread up to her chin, and let her eyes close for a moment. When she opened them again it was morning, and sunlight streamed through the windows, falling in bright golden patterns upon the bedroom rug.

  She got up and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs. The house was filled with people.

  One of her aunts came over and put an arm around her and said, “Poor baby! Poor little love!”

  “What is it?” Kit asked. “What’s happened?” Her eyes took in the group before her. “Why is Mom crying?”

  “It’s your father, dear,” her aunt told her. “There was an accident last night and your mother only got the call about it this morning. Your father was in a taxi headed back to his hotel, when the driver ran a stop sign—”

  “But that can’t be true,” Kit interrupted in bewilderment. “He was here last night. I saw him. He came into my bedroom.”

  “You were dreaming, dear,” her aunt told her gently.

  “I wasn’t,” Kit insisted. “I was awake. Dad was here. I saw him.” Across the room she cried to her mother, “Daddy did come home last night, didn’t he? You must have gone to pick him up at the airport. Mom—”

  Her mother’s face was white and terrible in grief, but she came quickly and took Kit in her arms.

  “I wish he had, honey,” she said in a choking voice. “If only he had.”

  The year that followed saw many changes in their lives. Her mother, who had never worked before, took a course in business school and found a secretarial job with a law firm. She sold the house—“The payments are too much for me to manage,” she said, “and I can’t keep up the yard by myself”—and rented an apartment in the city close to the office where she worked.

  Kit knew it had not been easy. Her mother was a pretty, vivacious woman, and much as she loved her daughter, there was bound to be a void in her life, a terrible longing for adult companionship. This had been proven by the change in her spirits since she had found Dan.

  Mom’s happy now, and I will be too, Kit told herself determinedly. But she could not forget that feeling in the driveway, the sudden evil chill as though a cloud had slid across the sun.

  If Tracy were here, they would have laughed about it. They would even have made a joke of the crimson canopy; Tracy would probably have suggested attaching bells to it so that the tinkle would wake them when it attacked in the night. Tracy Rosenblum was levelheaded and smart and funny, and the possibility that she might not be accepted at Blackwood had never occurred to either of them. When the notice had arrived, Kit couldn’t believe it.

  “But you’re an honor student!” she had exclaimed incredulously. “You always get better grades than I do!”

  “Maybe it was the psychological tests,” Tracy had said. “Or the interview. It’s possible the woman just didn’t like me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everybody likes you. Besides, you knew all about her art collection and you could talk to her about the Vermeer she discovered, and she kept calling you ‘chérie’ with every other breath. She liked you better than she did me.”

  “Well, you come up with a reason then.” Tracy had shrugged her shoulders philosophically. “I just didn’t make it, and that’s that. So back I go to old P.S. 37, and off you go to Blackwood, and I’m going to expect a lot of text messages and phone calls.”

  “You’ll get them,” Kit had promised. “But there’s still a chance I can talk Mom out of sending me.” Well, that chance was gone. Here she was, stretched out on velvet, staring up at more velvet, watching the room grow dim as dusk settled outside the window.

  Impulsively, she got out her cell phone and punched in Tracy’s number. The “no service” message popped up on the screen. Just her luck. This really was the middle of nowhere.

  Kit felt like screaming with frustration. She’d have to resort to e-mail. They had to have Internet in the school.

  I should unpack, Kit thought. And set up my computer. But she made no move to do so. She felt lulled and heavy, weighted down with a strange weariness which she could not explain.

  There was a rap on the door. A voice said, “Miss Kathryn?”

  “Yes?” Kit came to life with a start. Guiltily she shoved her feet over the edge of the bed so that her shoes no longer touched the spread. “Yes—what is it?”

  “Dinner, miss.” The voice was unmistakably Lucretia’s. “The others are already down.”

  “Oh, thanks. I guess I lost track of time.” Pushing her legs the rest of the way over the edge of the bed, Kit sat up. To her surprise she saw that in only a moment’s time the twilight outside had deepened into night. The room was very dark.

  Reaching over, she fumbled with the lamp on the bedside table, found a knob at its base, and turned it. The light went on and shadows leapt high against the opposite wall.

  I wish there was an overhead light, Kit thought, getting to her feet. There’s such a thing as being too old-fashioned and charming.

  She crossed to the desk and turned on the study lamp, which helped slightly. She knew she should change from her travel-wrinkled clothes, but with dinner already waiting, it seemed better not to take the time. She compromised by scrubbing her hands and face and running a comb through her thick mane of blond hair.

  The face that looked back at her from the bathroom mirror was not conventionally pretty. The mouth was a little too wide, the chin too square. But the gray eyes were direct and friendly and the cheeks were flushed with the glow of vitality and good health. It was a likable face, and the only time Kit really thought about it was when she saw its growing resemblance to her father’s.

  Leaving the lights burning in the bedroom, she stepped out into the hall and drew th
e door closed behind her. Immediately she found herself standing in a tunnel of darkness. The hall was unlit except for a single bulb encased in a frosted globe at the top of the stairwell. Kit began to walk slowly toward it, and to her astonishment, she saw a slim, pale figure moving toward her as though out of the wall beyond the stairs.

  She stopped, and the figure stopped. She took one tentative step, and suddenly realized that she was seeing her own reflection in the mirror above the stairs. “Good one, Kit,” she said aloud, disgusted with herself. “Next thing you know I’ll be seeing vampires.”

  Placing her hand on the smooth mahogany banister, she descended the stairs to the hall below. This was well-lit, and though it was empty she could hear the sound of voices and the clink of glasses and silverware in a room beyond. Following the sounds, she made her way down the hall to the door of the dining room and looked inside.

  The room was massive, with high, arched ceilings and a crystal chandelier of such grandeur that it might have been stolen from the set of a period movie. Beneath it stood a large, circular table covered with a white linen cloth and set with candles and china. Three people were seated around it, and there was a fourth place setting. Madame Duret glanced up from the conversation to see Kit standing in the doorway.

  “Come in, my dear. Forgive us for starting without you, but dinner at Blackwood is served promptly at six thirty.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said contritely. “I think I must have fallen asleep.”

  As she entered the room the two men at the table rose to their feet and Madame made the introductions.

  “Kathryn Gordy, may I present Professor Farley and my son, Jules.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Kit said.

  The elderly gentleman across from her had a receding hairline and a short, white beard, trimmed into a point. Kit shook his hand politely, but her eyes had already shifted past him to Jules Duret.