The witching hour

house was free at last from despicable bondage. And it was amazing how much they knew about the very latest changes and discoveries. They even knew the colors Rowan had chosen for rooms they hadn’t yet seen.

So splendid that Rowan had kept all the old bedroom furniture. Did she know that Stella had once slept in Carlotta’s bed? And the bed in Millie’s room had belonged to Grandmere Katherine, and Great Oncle Julien had been born in the bed in the front room, which was to be Rowan and Michael’s bed.

What did they think about her plan for the great hospital? In her few brief conversations outside the firm, she’d found them amazingly receptive. The name, Mayfair Medical, delighted them.

It was crucial to her that the center break new ground, she’d explained last week to Bea and Cecilia, that it fulfill needs which others had not addressed. The ideal environment for research, yes, that was mandatory, but this was to be no ivory tower institute. It was to be a true hospital with a large proportion of its beds committed to nonpaying patients. If it could draw together the top neurologists and neurosurgeons in the nation and become the most innovative, effective, and complete center for the treatment of neurological problems, in unparalleled comfort and with the very latest equipment, it would be her dream come true.

“Sounds quite terrific if you ask me,” Cecilia had said.

“It’s about time, I think,” said Carmen Mayfair over lunch, “You know, Mayfair and Mayfair has always given away millions, but this is the first time anyone has shown this sort of initiative.”

And of course that was only the beginning. No need to explain yet that she foresaw experiments in the structure and arrangement of intensive care units, and critical care wards, that she wanted to devise revolutionary housing for the families of patients, with special educational programs for spouses and children who must participate in the ongoing rehabilitation of those with incurable diseases or disabilities.

But each day her vision gained new momentum. She dreamed of a humanizing teaching program designed to correct all the horrors and abuses which had become the cliches of modern medicine; she planned a nursing school in which a new type of supernurse, capable of a whole range of new responsibilities, could be created.

The words “Mayfair Medical” could become synonymous with the finest and most humane and sensitive practitioners in the profession.

Yes, they would all be proud. How could they not be?

“Another drink?”

“Yes, thank you. Bourbon will be fine. Too fine.”

Laughter.

She took another sip as she nodded now to young Timmy Mayfair, who had come to shake hands. Yes, and hello again to Bernardette Mayfair, whom she’d met briefly at the funeral, and to the beautiful little red-haired girl with the hair ribbon, who was named Mona Mayfair, daughter of CeeCee, yes, and the tomboyish Jennifer Mayfair, Mona’s best friend and fourth cousin, yes, met you before, of course. Jenn had a voice like her own, she thought, deep and husky.

Bourbon was better when it was very cold. But it was also sneaky when it was cold. And she knew she was drinking just a little too much of it. She took another sip, acknowledging a little toast from across the garden. One toast after another was being made to the house, and to the marriage. Was anybody here talking about anything else?

“Rowan, I have photographs that go all the way back-”

“ … and my mother saved all the articles from the papers … ”

“You know, it’s in the books on New Orleans, oh, yes, I have some of the very old books, I can drop them off for you at the hotel … ”

“ … you understand, we are not going to be knocking on the door day and night, but just to know! … ”

“Rowan, our great-grandfathers were born in that house … all the people you see here were … ”

“Oh, poor Millie Dear never lived to see the day … ”

“ … a package of daguerreotypes … Katherine and Darcy, and Julien. You know Julien was always photographed at the front door. I have seven different pictures of him at the front door.”

The front door?

More and more Mayfairs streamed in. And there at last was the elderly Fielding-Clay’s son-utterly bald, and with his fine, translucent skin and red-rimmed eyes-and they were bringing him here, to sit beside her.

No sooner had he eased down in the chair than the young ones began to appear to pay court to him as they had to her.

Hercules, the Haitian servant, put the tumbler of bourbon in the old man’s hand.

“You got that now, Mr. Fielding?”

“Yes, Hercules, no food! I’m sick of food. I’ve eaten enough food for a lifetime.”

His voice was deep, and ageless the way the old woman’s voice had been.

“And so no more Carlotta,” he said grimly to Beatrice, who had come to kiss him. “And I’m the only old one left.”

“Don’t talk about it, you’re going to be with us forever,” said Bea, her perfume swirling about them, sweet and floral, and expensive like her brilliant red silk dress.

“I don’t know that you’re all that much older than I am,” declared Lily Mayfair, sitting beside him, and indeed for a moment she did seem as old as he was, with her wispy luminous white hair and sunken cheeks, and the bony hand she laid on his arm.

Fielding turned to Rowan. “So you’re restoring First Street. You and that man of yours are going to live there. And so far things have gone well?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Rowan asked with a gentle smile.

But she was warmed suddenly by the blessing Fielding gave her as he rested his hand on her own.

“Splendid news, Rowan,” he said, his low voice gaining resonance now that he had caught his breath after the long odyssey from the front door. “Splendid news.” The whites of his eyes were yellowed, though his false teeth were shining white. “All those years, she wouldn’t let anyone touch it,” he said with a touch of anger. “Old witch, that’s what she was.”

Little gasps rose from the women gathered to the left. Ah, but this was what Rowan wanted. Let the polished surface be broken.

“Granddaddy, for heaven’s sakes.” It was Gifford at his elbow. She picked up his fallen cane from the grass and hooked it over the back of the chair. He ignored her.

“Well, it’s the truth,” he said. “She let it fall to ruin! It’s a wonder it can be restored at all.”

“Granddaddy,” said Gifford, almost desperately.

“Oh, let him talk, darling,” said Lily, with a little palsy to her small head, eyes flickering over Rowan, her thin hand knotted around her drink.

“You think anyone could shut me up,” said the old man. “She said he was the one who wouldn’t let her, she blamed it all on him. She believed in him and used him when she had her reasons.”

A hush was falling over those around them. It seemed the light died a little as the others pressed in. Rowan was vaguely aware that the dark gray figure of Randall was moving in the corner of her eye.

“Granddaddy, I wish you wouldn’t … ” said Gifford.

Oh, but I wish you would!

“She was the one,” Fielding said. “She wanted it to fall down around her. I wonder sometimes why she didn’t burn it, like that wicked housekeeper in Rebecca. I used to worry that she’d do it. That she’d burn all the old pictures. You see the pictures? You see Julien and his sons standing in front of the doorway?”

“The doorway. You mean the keyhole door at the front of the house?”

Had Michael heard him? Yes, he was coming towards them, obviously trying to silence Cecilia who whispered nonstop in his ear, oblivious to the dazed expression on his face, and Aaron stood not very far away, under the magnolia, unnoticed, eyes fixed on the group. If only she could put a spell on them so that they didn’t see Aaron.

But they weren’t noticing anything except each other, Fielding nodding, and Felice speaking up, her silver bracelets jangling as she pointed at Fielding.

“Tell her about it,” said Felice, “I say you should. You want my opinion? Carlotta wanted that house. She wanted to rule in that house. She was mistress of it till the day she died, wasn’t she?”