The Unsuspected Read online

  "Poor Grandy indeed " he muttered.

  Something in his voice touched off her anger again. She leaned forward and twisted to confront him. "There you go again. Now, why do you say that?"

  He looked up innocently.

  "You don't like Grandy. What is it? What are you trying to do? There's no use denying. I can tell."

  "Just a minute," he said, "before you go all intuitional on me. Why do I say 'Poor Grandy, indeed'? Because it strikes me you feel sorry for the wrong person. Poor Rosaleen! Don't you think?" He closed his eyes. "You don't even try to imagine what I might be feeling. Can't you tell? You fly off the handle about Grandy. He's the one." He opened his eyes and met hers boldly, almost impudently. "Can't you see I'm jealous of that old man?"

  Mathilda bit her lip. "Maybe," she said in a queer, high little voice, "you and I are just two other people."

  He didn't smile. He reached into his pocket as if he'd thought of something. Mathilda brought her eyes to focus on what he held. She saw her own face, laughing.

  Francis was murmuring, "Not that it caught you. Two dimensions wouldn't be enough. The beauty you've got is pretty near fourth dimension. It's motion. It's time. It's what I said, like flying."

  Her throat felt dry again. What he said was babble. But this was a picture of herself that she had never seen. She thought, The camera doesn't lie. Then she thought, It's a trick.

  But for the first time her imagination did encompass the impossible, and she thought, just fleetingly, What if all that he says is true? Nonsense. You might forget, but you don't invent another way of passing the same time and paste it over the gap in your memory.

  She must get to Grandy. She must not look at anything any more.

  When the train got in, he took her quickly to a cab. Mathilda felt a little sick and dizzy. She'd had no time to be prepared. How could she face Oliver? How could she find a way to think of him, a way to live her life in his physical presence?

  Oliver had always been around. Such a nice guy, such fun, always around, always willing to go swimming, to play a little tennis. Always ready to gossip or just chat. Oliver had no driving energy toward a purpose of his own. Nothing ever interfered with his availability. What he did for himself, work, if any, was always done unobtrusively, of second importance in his scheme of tilings. He was always around. One grew to depend on it.

  Oh, she thought, he would be there now. Married to Althea. How to face Althea? How to hide this as she had always hidden Althea's power to hurt her? Ever since they were little girls, and Tyl's feet and eyes were too big for the rest of her, and she was unsure and shy, Althea, full of grace and pretty poise, had always been watching with her shining eyes. If Tyl had a friend or began an awkward progress toward something less lonely, Althea would manage to slip between and dazzle the friend away. Perhaps she never meant to do it. Perhaps she couldn't help it. No good. Tyl's heart wasn't ready for charity yet. How could she face them?

  She was astonished to hear Francis say, "Take it easy, Tyl. He'll be feeling brotherly and a bit miffed. He thinks you're mine."

  "Is Althea there?" she asked painfully.

  He hesitated. Then he said, almost pityingly, "Why do you let Althea throw you? Don't you know she's envious of you? Always has been?" and while Mathilda gasped, he added savagely, "Althea's been tight in bed with la grippe, but she's up now."

  Mathilda didn't understand that savage tone, she didn't understand him, but she felt softened toward him.

  Grandy's portico. The big white front door.

  Oliver said, "Well, Tyl!" He took her hand. He kissed her cheek. She felt nothing. The moment was blurred. There was Althea, standing back in the hall. She wore yellow. She was exquisite. Her oddly shining gray eyes weren't looking at Tyl at all.

  A blond girl in a black wool frock who had the face of a baby doll smiled at her and went running down the long living room, calling, "Mr. Grandison!”

  Tyl waited where she was for Grandy. She saw him coming—the arrogantly held gray head, the beak of a nose, the lively eyes behind the pince-nez, the unimpressive body with the fat little bulge of a tummy, the thin legs, the biggish, awkward feet.

  She began to laugh and cry. He was purring. His beautiful voice that seemed not to need any breath came pouring out in endearments. Through her own tears, she could see in his black eyes the eternal spectator, who viewed with such lively interest and delight this dramatic and emotional moment in which he took part. He was just the same. She threw herself into his arms. She felt so safe. It was wonderful to feel so safe.

  Chapter Nine

  Never afterward was Mathilda able to put the ringer of her memory on the moment that changed anything. It was like the tides on the beach. The sea would be coming up on the sand. Later, one was aware that it had begun to go down instead. But the moment of change escaped, couldn't be remembered, was not noticed at the time. So it was about Oliver.

  There was a familiar hubbub. Grandy thought she was too thin. "My poor baby, your eyes are bigger than your face!"

  Althea said, "That suit, Tyl!" with shocked disgust.

  They introduced her to Jane Moynihan. Grandy had a visitor in his study who must be dismissed. He trotted off down the long room again. She saw Francis follow, saw him stop, halfway down, to speak to that pretty little girl named Jane. She saw Althea, watching.

  Mathilda remembered later that she was able to turn easily and look Oliver square in the face, finding it the same friendly face, the same sandy eyebrows. Suddenly she could see the white walls of the African town in the sun. The waters of the oceans of the world were crisscrossed with the vanished tracks of the ships of men. She thought. I've been away.

  He said, "Gosh, Tyl, you'll never know how I felt!"

  She thought, I'll never care.

  The tide had turned. It was going out. The strange thing was that it must have turned before this, and she hadn't known. But it was true; she didn't care any more how he felt, how he had felt or how he would feel tomorrow. The agony of caring was gone. Maybe

  shed beaten it out of herself by caring so much and so hard. She felt very tired, as if all the sleep she'd lost over her emotions about him had accumulated in a reproachful cloud. It hadn't really been necessary.

  Something must have gone out of her face, because Oliver could tell. She could see him persuading himself that he was, on the whole, relieved and glad. She saw right through. It was like watching the wheels go around in an insignificant toy. It was fascinating, but not important. Then the weariness lifted and Tyl felt free and lively. Her body felt light.

  She said gaily, "Where are my things? Where do I go?"

  "You re in the gray room." Althea was approaching with her mannequin's walk. "I'm afraid we took your old room, darling. Naturally, since it was always the nicest"

  "Yes, I know," Tyl murmured. She was amused. It seemed to her that Althea was suddenly transparent too. Oliver picked up her suitcase. There was a little silence among the three of them, because Francis' two bags with his initials on them were there on the

  floor.

  It came into Mathilda's head to tell them, then and there, and yet she didn't. She ought to have said, "I'm not married to Francis." But something was wrong with her mood. She couldn't have said it without giggling.

  "Fran's been down in the guest house," Althea was saying.

  "Oh, leave them," said Tyl carelessly. She was too much amused, too tickled, too giddy with inner mirth to tell them now. She ran upstairs. Her feet felt like flying. Althea came pelting after.

  "Lord, Tyl, you are a skinny little rat"

  Mathilda was burrowing into the gray room's clothes closet. She found a green wool dress. In the eye of the beholder, she thought. In a pig's eye.

  "I've got good ankles" she said, muffled among the clothes. The knowledge that Althea couldn't hurt her made her dizzy.

  Althea had sat down on the foot of the bed and her shining eyes that caught and reflected the light as if they had been metal, like silver button
s with black centers, were fixed on Tyl as if to read her very soul.

  "What on earth happened to your hair?" she cried.

  Althea's own hair was a soft silvery cloud of curls, cut short, swept up, every tendril blending charmingly with the whole effect. Mathilda shook her brown mane, which hung free to her shoulders. "I washed it myself," she said defiantly.

  Althea's delicate eyebrows trembled with pitying comment. She touched the nape of her own neck with a polished finger tip. "I've been down with the grippe," she said, and sighed. "I've been miserable."

  "Too bad." Tyl bit her lip. Laughter bubbled inside. She could hardly keep it under. And I've been shipwrecked and rescued and half around the world, she thought, and it's eating you. Oh, it's eating you.

  Althea said, with grudging admiration, "You re a sly one." She sloped gracefully back on one elbow. "Where did you find this Francis of yours?"

  Mathilda, in her slip, let her bare shoulders fall a little.

  "A millionaire," complained Althea. Her voice verged on a whine, "Really, Tyl, you scarcely needed a millionaire. It doesn't seem just and fair. Look at Oliver and me, poor as church mice, both of us."

  And it's eating you, thought Tyl. "I know what you mean," she said aloud, flippantly. "Maybe we ought to shuffle and deal again."

  She saw, in the mirror, Althea's dainty body stiffen, saw the painted lashes draw down to narrow those gleaming eyes. What ails me? she wondered. She was treating Althea to a taste of sauce, as she had never dared before. She thought, It's true. She is envious. She always has been. She thought, But I ought not to let her go on thinking I'm married. I mustn't be childish.

  She said aloud, "There's something you don't know about—"

  "Is there, indeed?" said Althea acidly. "About true love, I suppose?"

  Tyl picked up her own turquoise-handled hairbrush and made her mane fly. She thought, Just for that, you can wait. And again, suddenly, she wanted to laugh. Her mouth began to curve. She had to control it The whole situation was so totally turned about. So ridiculously altered from what she had feared. For it wasn't Althea who had the husband Tyl had wanted. No, It was Althea who wanted the husband she thought Tyl had. Althea had her silver eyes on Francis.

  Chapter Ten

  Inside the study, the man named Press waited. He stood looking down at the floor.

  "Now, as I said," purred Grandy, "I don't intend to repeat such a broadcast. They came around, you know, and I had to claim a good deal of poetic license. But you needn't worry. You are still unsuspected. As I said. And don't come here. I'll be in touch with

  you from time to time."

  The man had a very round head and wide-spaced dark eyes. He looked up. The eyes had no hope in them.

  "Don't you know" said Grandy ever so softly, "I rather enjoy playing God?"

  The man named Press barely nodded. His eyes were still hopeless.

  Outside, in the living room, Francis smiled politely at the blond secretary. "Had to tell her the yam," he said, as if he were saying, "Hello, how are you?"

  Jane's pretty baby face was a perfect mask. "Oh, no," she moaned.

  "Something's going to bust any minute. Pray I get hold of Althea before it does. Who's in there?"

  "That man Press. The same one."

  "I'm going to tell Grandy the duckling's lost her memory."

  "Why?" Her pleasant smile might have been sculped on.

  "For time," he said. "To tempt him. Be ready to get out of here,” he murmured, brushing by.

  "Oh, Fran," moaned Jane.

  Grandy s study door had a little whimsical knocker on the living-room side. It knocked back at you if the word was to come in. This was because the study had been completely soundproofed, so that Grandy s genius could work in quiet. Francis opened the door

  when the signal came.

  "I thought you had company, sir," he said.

  The visitor must have left by way of the kitchen. Grandy was sitting at his big light wood desk. He touched his pince-nez with his long-fingered, knot-knuckled hand. "No, no. Come in."

  Francis walked across and sat down in the visitors chair. He followed the precepts of good acting. He tried to think only of and within the frame of mind he was to seem to be in. He was a hurt, bewildered, rebuffed, humiliated and worried lover. At the same time, he mustn't miss anything he could glean from that face, that somewhat birdlike countenance, with its beak, its thin mouth, its black, brisk, bright and clever eyes.

  "What is the matter?" asked Grandy, reacting promptly.

  Francis looked up, surprised, looked down, "I don't know how to tell you,” he mumbled. "I'm afraid I'm—" He rubbed his hand over his face, hoping it wasn't too theatrical a gesture.

  Grandy stirred. He fitted a cigarette into his longish holder and slipped the holder into the side of his thin mouth. "Don't be tantalizing," he said. "What happened?"

  Francis looked at him stupidly for a moment "I don't know," he said at last, roughly. "Mathilda doesn't— She says—"

  "D'ya mean she's. . . out of love?" Grandy inquired.

  "She was never in!" he flung back. "No. Worse. She doesn't know me."

  "What do you mean?" Grandy didn't show any shock, except that the gray hairs on his head seemed to rise quietly, and stand straighter, at attention.

  "I don't know," insisted Francis, "I suppose its—I don't know what it is. She just plain doesn't, or can't, or won't remember me."

  "How very extraordinary," said Grandy in a moment.

  Francis was able to watch, somehow, without looking at him directly. He kept his own eyes down, and yet he knew that the expression on that face was alert and tentative. It was more plain curiosity and excitement than anything else yet

  Francis said, Tm sorry. It just hits me, now. What am I going to do? I don't understand things like that"

  "Do you mean you believe she is the victim of amnesia?" purred Grandy.

  "Must be," said Francis. "Or whatever you call it. I don't know, sir. I don't know anything about anything. All I know is, I went to find her, and there she was and she didn't know me. She says she hasn't been hurt, or sick, or anything like that. I don't know what

  to think. I'm not thinking."

  The hell I'm not, thought Francis. He got up and walked over to stare out of the window. It was a good thing to do, he'd found when you were trying to think while being watched.

  What did it matter any more how desperate this throw was? He was close. He knew nearly enough. There was such a little way to go. And if Althea hadn't taken to her bed with a grippe and if Oliver, with his ridiculous fuss, hadn't made it so plain that Francis

  was not admissible to the sickroom; if he hadn't been thwarted delayed—why, he might have been finished by now, and able to come out into the open and let things burst. And if that little mutton-headed heiress hadn't jumped down his throat at the first word about her precious guardian, if he'd had the least hope that she wouldn't go blabbing immediately, if he'd been able to talk to her, tell her what he was doing, how much he knew, explain, ask her to help—

  He saw now how foolish he'd been to think he could explain to her. To think that any perfect stranger could shake her deep-rooted faith in a man she obviously loved and adored. He might have known. Althea was the same. Bright-eyed Althea was blinded by

  Grandy. He knew better than to try to approach her with such frank and open tactics.

  He wondered why he'd been led to think that Mathilda might be more approachable. Just hope. Just wishful thinking. Well, he'd seen quickly enough that it wouldn't work. And he hadn't wanted things to burst.

  There was Jane for one thing. He'd made a mistake to mention her name. He hoped Mathilda wouldn't begin to wonder about that. No, he couldn't have confessed the whole crazy device then and there, and risked Mathilda rushing to a phone and risked Grandy finding out that Jane was . . . Jane. Not when Jane was here alone. Not when he had been too far away to stand between. Grandy was too smart. He could put two and two together too fast.
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br />   Well it would burst now. Any minute. Unless, by this stubborn acting, he could muddle them enough. It was a nasty trick, a mean, cruel trick on the poor lad. Geoffrey had said so. Geoffrey hadn't wanted to go on with it. He'd been ready to balk. But when he saw

  how close it was, how sure Francis was now, and when he was reminded of Rosaleen—

  Besides, sooner or later, the silly kid was going to be in danger herself. Blindly devoted to this evil old creature, she would never see what he was up to until too late. Wasn't it up to Francis, then, who knew all about it, to guard her, even from herself? Fancy thinking, maybe. A fine, high-minded excuse. There was some truth in it, although he didn't like it, didn't like any part of it.

  But he had to make this desperate try. And at the back of his mind was the thought of the trap it set, the temptation. Grandy just might-just might pretend to be taken in long enough— After all, it would be very convenient for Grandy, in many ways, if there turned out to be something a little wrong with Mathilda's mind.