The Secret of Mirror House Read online

  The Secret of Mirror House

  Jennifer Blake

  An [ e - reads ] Book

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 1970 by Patricia Maxwell

  First e-reads publication 1999

  www.e-reads.com

  ISBN 0-7592-0072-6

  Author Biography

  Jennifer Blake has been called the Steel Magnolia of women's fiction, and a "legend of the genre." She is a seventh generation Louisianian who married at 15, began writing at 21, sold her first book at 27, in 1970, and gained her first New York Times Best Seller nearly 20 years ago with LOVE'S WILD DESIRE in 1977. She has written over 50 books, including ROYAL SEDUCTION, FIERCE EDEN, SHAMELESS, TIGRESS, and her latest release GARDEN OF SCANDAL. A writer of international best-seller status as well, her books have been published in 17 languages for worldwide sales approaching 22 million. She was honored with the position as Writer-in-Residence for the University of Northeastern Louisiana, and is a charter, and honorary, member of Romance Writers of America.

  She has received numerous awards for her work, but among those she values most are the Golden Treasure Award for Lifetime Achievement from Romance Writers of America, induction into the Affaire de Coeur Romance Hall of Fame, and the Frank Waters Award for Excellence in Fiction.

  Jennifer and her husband of 41 years live at Sweet Briar, the home they designed and built in 1980 as an energy efficient replica of an old Southern Planter's Cottage. On acreage crossed by a spring-fed creek and enhanced by tall pines, beeches, dogwoods, wild azaleas, and Jennifer's garden of antique roses, they entertain friends and family, especially their four grown children and thirteen grandchildren. Here, as Jennifer says in her own words, "I write my fantasies of love and adventure in the romantic South. And sometimes, when I sit on the porch with the sunlight falling across the lawn and the smells of magnolia, sweet olive, honeysuckle and roses wafting on the warm air, I live them."

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Secret of Mirror House

  Chapter One

  IN THE ROSY afterglow of a summer sunset, Amelia Harveston stepped down from the mail coach with her eyes on Mirror House and her carpetbag in her hand. There was an undercurrent of disbelief running through her mind, for it seemed impossible that she could be standing in there front of it. As she stood in the dust of the road, the driver whipped up his horses, and almost as if he were afraid, sent the coach rattling along the drive that curved around the ornamental lake and led back into the overgrown wood road and eventually back to civilization. Amelia turned quickly in consternation, for she had meant to ask the driver to wait, a few minutes, at least. That his desertion left her in such distress was an indication of her feelings about Mirror House and its occupants. The people who lived in that house were kin and shared with her its legacy of background and character, yet they were strangers. Why they were strangers was another of the mysteries that had seemed, in her childhood, so natural, but that lately had begun to plague her.

  She turned back to the house, listening to the sounds of the coach fast receding in the distance, and with a lift of her chin faced the prospect before her. Silently, she reminded herself that she wasn't unexpected. She was early, it was true. She had specified tomorrow as her arrival date, but surely it wouldn't matter if she was early, since it had been necessary. Her eyes narrowed with anger and a kind of pain as she remembered her landlady's servile and hypocritical expressions of grief for her mother's death, fast followed by her request that Amelia leave the room a day early. The landlady had talked to a nice middle-aged woman who needed the room immediately. She was sure Amelia wouldn't mind doing her that small favor since she was leaving anyway.

  Well, perhaps it didn't matter; still, it seemed a betrayal of her mother's memory. Her mother had considered the landlady her best friend during all those years they had lived in the boarding house, and had often spoken of her as a sister, a substitute for the family they didn't have.

  Amelia's thoughts halted abruptly-there before her was the home of her father's people, people she had not known existed until her mother's lawyer had extended the letter of invitation from her cousin, Katherine Harveston. The lawyer had contacted the family according to instructions given him by Amelia's mother before her death.

  The decision to become a poor relation had not been an easy one, even though there had been little else from which to choose. Amelia felt that she might have become a teacher or a governess, but since the War Between the States the few positions of that nature available were filled by mature ladies, better educated, and more qualified than she, a young woman barely twenty. But, perhaps curiosity about her family had brought her here as much as need. She might not have come if she had not had such a longing to see someone else who bore the name Harveston, and who, after being revealed as an unknown family, might also be able to explain the other mysteries that troubled her. But, she thought, glancing at the darkening woods in the direction the coach had taken, it would have been a comfort to have the coach waiting, just in case this new family of hers was too impossible.

  With a rueful smile, she shook the dust off her traveling dress, smoothed her hair, and started up the brick walk that led to the front steps.

  The house that loomed above her was in Creole style, with arcaded galleries on both stories and square Spanish pillars that reached to the roof. Wrought iron railings protected the galleries, and grills of the same grape-leaf design barred the windows on the ground floor. Jalousies framed the tall, wide windows while four chimneys, stuccoed to match the square pillars, pointed endlessly toward the sky. The setting sun threw its pink radiance at the house, pointing out the neglect and decay, turning the once white walls a sickly, pinkish gray, and glazing the windows, so that the house had a blank look, an expression of apathy bordering on despair. A magnolia tree, growing out of control close against the house, seemed to be pushing at it, and its topmost branches lifted against the eaves of the cedar-shingled roof. It was hemmed in by shrubs at the foundations, giant camellia with fat, glossy leaves and knotted limbs and hydrangea gone wild with dead canes choking out the new ones. Running roses straggled against the pillars, reaching out with long spurred arms.

  It was not a grand house, yet it was, in its way, impressive. It was an aristocrat-aloof, self-contained, even secretive, making no excuse for its disheveled state. But, like an aristocrat deserted by his servitors, it was aware of the creeping decay and deplored it, waiting in desperation for the end, without hope of rescue.

  The nearer she came to the house the more that hopelessness weighed on Amelia, and combined with the overpowering scent of a honeysuckle hedge blooming somewhere near, reminded her of her loss and her own helplessness, and sent sweeping over her a tired weakness so great she hesitated, not sure she could take another step.

  Then, a man appeared in the doorway of the double front doors that stood open to the evening coolness after the heat of the day. Indistinct in the shadow of the overhang
ing porch, he seemed a ghostlike figure and his silence heightened the impression. He seemed to be staring in hostility at Amelia as she mounted the steps and stopped before him, and her friendly smile died under the cold blankness of his gaze. Confusion and mounting fear of the moldering old house and its unknown inhabitants shivered over Amelia as she stood there feeling slightly ridiculous with her carpetbag hanging from her fingers and the expectations of welcome fading from her eyes. Then, a saving irritation filled her, and she said stiffly, "I'm your cousin, Amelia Harveston."

  "Not my cousin, and not expected until tomorrow." He said it without intonation, calmly, as though he wanted Amelia to go away and come back when she was expected, if at all.

  "I'm sorry …" Amelia began, but he was already turning back into the house.

  "Don't just stand there," he said brusquely over his shoulder, "Come on in." Then, he disappeared in the interior darkness, leaving Amelia to follow as she pleased, or if she pleased.

  Amelia picked up her skirts and stepped inside, wondering, even as she did so, if it was wise. She found she was in a wide, bare hall with door-sized squares of light showing faintly at the other end. A white staircase rose against the wall on the left, and the only furniture was an eating table with chairs dimly seen at the far end of the hall and an enormous chest topped by a giant of a mirror and metal projections for hats. It was a depressing entrance hall.

  The chink of glass on glass from the room on the right seemed to indicate the presence of someone, and Amelia moved hesitantly toward the sound.

  Inside the room, the furniture, though it was the middle of July, was still grouped around the cold, empty fireplace as if no one cared that the season had changed. The worn red plush of the chairs, which matched the red velvet draperies at the windows, seemed stuffy and unbearably hot. There was no light in the room except for the glow of twilight that came in the windows, but after a moment Amelia found her eyes adjusting to the gloom.

  The man who had spoken to her stood at a small table, pouring wine from a decanter. He handed a glass to a man seated in one of the armchairs and raised one to Amelia saying inquisitively, "Brandy?"

  When she shook her head, he shrugged and poured another, in what seemed a fluid, well-practiced motion.

  "Ladies don't drink brandy, Neville," the man in the chair said softly. "Perhaps, she would care for a little sherry."

  "No sherry," Nelville said succinctly.

  "No? I'm sorry," the soft-spoken man said with an anxious look that receded as Amelia declined the drink with a somewhat shaky smile.

  "I expect you are Amelia," he went on in a thin voice. "I'm your cousin James Harveston, and this"-he indicated the man standing beside his chair-"is Nelville Payne, our-"

  "Just another live-in servant, as you will be," Nelville interrupted without a smile in his green eyes. He was not a large man, but was lithe and slim and quick. His auburn hair grew crisp and thick with sharp glints in it. His nose and mouth were finely cut. His face was slightly broad across the cheekbones, giving him an Oriental appearance that was further heightened by the deep tan of his skin and the curving lines around his mouth. He wore a soft, white shirt and dark pants, and seemingly, he was without emotion. Something about his green eyes, the cold, flat way he looked at her, made Amelia think of a stuffed red fox her landlady had kept in the parlor. As a child, it had fascinated her with its menacing gaze and ferocious grimace that showed sharp teeth. Watching Nelville was something like that, except she had known the fox could not hurt her.

  "Our friend since childhood, I was about to say," James corrected, glancing up at Nelville's impassive face from where he sat. "Won't you please sit down, Cousin Amelia," he continued, smiling at her where she still stood by the door as if ready for instant flight. "And excuse me, if you will, for not rising. I'm a little lame and it makes a clumsy display of what should be a graceful courtesy."

  Uneasily, Amelia moved into the room and took a chair opposite him near the fireplace. The room smelled of damp ashes and musty furniture, and a wave of sickness, mingled with her fear and disappointment, threatened to overcome her. Her hands were trembling slightly and she clasped them in her lap and searched her mind for something to say, since it seemed from the silence that it was her turn now to carry the conversation. Abruptly, Nelville turned and left the room. She looked blankly after him.

  Seeing the direction of her gaze, James said, "You must not mind Nelville. He doesn't mean anything. It's just the way he is." He smiled as if that should explain everything.

  "He is a little odd," Amelia said in a try for lightness.

  "Confidentially, I believe he may be a little drunk this evening. It always worsens his tendency to say outrageous things."

  "Really?" Amelia asked, because it seemed that James wanted her to comment.

  "Yes, sometimes he says things to test people or to make them angry, so they will say things they don't intend. It's a trick he has always had since he first came to Mirror House when we were children. His parents sent him to stay with his great aunt here in order to escape a yellow fever epidemic. The parents died and no one else ever sent for him, so he stayed on. His great aunt was your grandfather's wife, of course." He stopped, perhaps a little too quickly, as Nelville came back into the room carrying a flaming paper spill. He touched the spill to the candles standing on a table, and light flickered in the room, making it seem suddenly darker outside.

  "Discussing my manners and morals, James?" Nelville asked, dropping the spill into the fireplace and turning to face them with his drink in his hand.

  "Your sterling qualities," James answered, staring into his brandy glass.

  "Which? My seat in a saddle, my ability to drink-both sterling qualities in a Southern gentleman." He turned his strange fixed gaze on Amelia, finishing, "Wouldn't you say?"

  Nervous, Amelia answered lightly, "Oh, undoubtedly," but her light reply brought a frown.

  "But, not as sterling as being young, and ready for sacrifice, and quite blind." Nelville's voice was soft and musing, but his eyes were bright green stars.

  Amelia glanced at James to see that he was frowning. His blond hair lay flat and straight, gleaming in the candlelight, and his pale eyes with their fair lashes held a wariness. His hands were long and thin and white-an indication of his slenderness and his slightly more than average height. "Katherine will be sorry she wasn't here to greet you this evening." He changed the subject rather loudly. "She and Sylvestor and his wife, Reba, are attending a small party at a neighbor's."

  "A masquerade, pretending that nothing has changed. Everybody wearing their dress uniforms smelling of camphor and their turned silks, ignoring the gaps in the line," Nelville said with his back turned as he refilled his glass from the decanter on the table.

  "Should they stay home and drown their sorrows?" James asked with an edge to his voice and a glance at Nelville's glass.

  "Why not? And play their own games, set their own traps, hatch their own plans, lead their own lambs to the slaughter." He watched Amelia with his sharp fox eyes, but Amelia found his voice was indistinct and he was edged in a wavering bronze nimbus from the candlelight.

  "What do you mean?" she asked unsteadily, fighting her confusion.

  "For heaven's sake, Nelville," James said wearily, as though the words were a familiar spate.

  "A small, curly-wooled lamb, infinitely dear, but painfully unlucky. Are you ready for the slaughter, small Amelia?"

  "What are you talking about?" Amelia asked, a ray of alarm depleting her of any assurance.

  "Nelville," James said more strongly, on a note of warning.

  "What sacrifice are you willing to make," Nelville continued as though he had not heard either one, "to the Mammon of Mirror House? Not for your gain, but ours? Your life? Your hand? Your … no, I suppose I shouldn't say … virginity? What price, security?" He turned suddenly and walked with his quick lithe stride toward Amelia, saying, "What am I bid? What will you pay for a bed at Mirror House?"

/>   He towered above her, so it seemed to Amelia, though, before, she had thought of him as only average sized, and the ruby contents of the glass he held high in a gesture of menace shown no brighter than the emerald glow of his eyes as they stared so brightly into hers. "What … what do you mean?" she asked faintly, alarmed, but not as alarmed as she might have been had she not felt so queer. With her last ounce of strength, she pushed herself to a standing position; then, the accumulated months of weary nursing at her mother's bedside and the long day in the rocking coach without food swept over her and a whirling blackness centered around the enigmatic figure of the man before her. She put out her hand blindly and slowly crumpled to the floor.

  Amelia opened her eyes slowly, incuriously. She was trapped. Above her and around her on all sides stretched a spiderweb of white gauze. There was a glow of light on one side, and as she turned her eyes toward it, everything swung into perspective. She lay on a huge bed with its canopy of mosquito netting, while on a bedside table a branch of candles flickered smokily. Through the mist of white netting, she could see a large corner room with four tall windows stretching toward a high ceiling. An enormous black wardrobe on one wall, a mirrored commode, an overstuffed chair between the two front windows only emphasized the open expanse of bare boards around the bed. Raising herself on one elbow, Amelia pushed at the netting.

  "Lie down," came an authoritative voice as Nelville walked in the door, carrying her carpetbag in one hand and a tray in the other.

  Memory swept over her and she tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness threatened and she sank back on the pillow.

  A suffocating blush rose to her hairline as she remembered fainting. She had never done such a thing before in her life and had nothing but contempt for the silly girls in her convent school who, after hours, had practiced the art of swooning gracefully. And to be carried about like a sack of flour by someone, probably this man, she could have cried with vexation.