Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen) Read online

  Mr. Rivers had at first elected to remain at Wind Downs, but Grover, blithely ignorant of the little crisis that had occurred there, had insisted he visit Bellevere instead. His reluctant presence enabled the love triangle between himself, Myrtle, and Horace to flourish anew. Artie Cannes, Grover’s new friend, also traveled back with them from Florida. The young people had lots of fun and employed themselves in a harmless manner in no way disrespectful to the distant house owner. Tennis, baseball, and a bit of darts were played outdoors in the sunny gardens. The boys—somehow Faye couldn’t help but call them that when they stood together on the lawn, in spite of their height—donned white pants and rolled up their sleeves. The girls managed to get around the heat by putting on broad hats and bright dresses of light cotton material in a myriad of pastel colors. Faye’s was yellow, Helene’s was blue, and Myrtle’s was green. BeBe’s was a sort of coral color, and Bat, in view of being married, distinguished herself by wearing a print of pink roses. The darts game was short-lived because Grover far overthrew the mark and planted his dart in BeBe’s arm. Slightly horrified, everyone else laughed as BeBe furiously threw the dart aside, stamped on it, and marched into the house.

  Indoors they played chess, a variety of card games, and lots of trivia. A booklet from the National Geographic Society quizzed them with interesting facts about little-known plants, tribes, nations, artifacts, industries, and landmarks from all over the world. Faye enjoyed this game immensely. She wasn’t as good at the lighter trivia about famous personages, though she did well on the ones that were actually historic, such as the Founding Fathers and the rulers of England. Not that she was a show-off about the geography or showed poor sportsmanship—actually, she lost more than once to Ed and was hard put to bite back remarks when he was a show-off about it. He and Helene constantly exchanged witty banter to the entertainment of all, especially when they mockingly competed for the title of Worst at Trivia. (The title actually went three times to Myrtle, who didn’t seem very pleased about it and put on a rather sour smile when the others applauded.) Faye sometimes whipped up some puddings or bought pastries from the local bakery to get everyone through the rounds of games.

  Artie, though a little pugnacious, was an encyclopedia when it came to trivia. Soon they enjoyed him very much as a companion and were amazed they’d ever done without him. Faye wondered why BeBe was the only one to dislike him. He was a lively friend, if a bit eccentric. But BeBe was generally in a rather grouchy mood and huffed whenever he spoke. That is, Faye didn’t understand it until Grover dropped a casual but vital detail—Artie’s father was a well-known radio producer in New York and Artie sometimes helped with auditions and casting. So this is . . . it can’t be? Artie was BeBe’s gig!

  She didn’t know quite what to think about it. It was hard to guess Artie’s future intentions, since the loud groups of gamers discouraged revelation of anything personal. But thinking about BeBe’s secret brought back memories of Myrtle’s time in the woods during the picnic. Faye had preferred not to ponder over that. I hope it’s not through moral cowardice. But honestly, it all feels like surreal images from the art of Picasso. I know it really happened, but it’s all so hazy.

  She roused from her thoughts as the gang stormed back in from an outing in town to pick up crackers and cheese. As they placed the food on the table, Faye saw Artie and BeBe come close together. BeBe’s behavior was extremely self-conscious. Her eyes bulged, and she loaded crackers and cheese onto her plate very fast.

  “Harrumph!” she huffed. “What a stupid-looking young man! Who does he think he is? I mean, really.”

  Putting her chin in the air, she bit spitefully into a cracker, eying him the whole time. Artie took a seat beside her while the others chattered away. He frowned at BeBe. “You’re getting crumbs everywhere. Right and left. Don’t you even know how to eat a cracker?”

  BeBe’s eyes flashed bombs. “What? Sir, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I really don’t!” She wiped her fingers on the napkin. “It’s not like eating a cracker takes a genius, and I wouldn’t need any instructions from you if it did, mister.”

  He wagged a finger dictatorially. “No, no. There’s a method. You see, biting into smaller pieces reduces projectile velocity of the crumbs and . . .”

  She stiffened. “I’ll thank you to keep your projectile velocipede-whatever to yourself. You’re insulting, and I won’t stand for it, so there.” Sniffing, she muttered rather softly. “Fiddle-dee-dee. It’s not like that gig ever pulled through, anyhow.”

  Faye almost choked on her lemonade. What a decidedly awkward situation. Good plain dealing in matters like this was a matter of conscience as well as common sense. Uncle Warren had always blown out his lip and scoffed about subterfuge and chaotic intrigue—she could hear him now. Not knowing who is who is just preposterous, that’s what. Keep things out in the open, and you’ll know where your investment is. Not tell each other what you know, and you’ll end up marrying your brother, or worse! Not that Faye was quite sure what would be worse than that. But in any case, the situation was pretty tangled now Grover had brought home BeBe’s boyfriend without knowing it.

  BeBe, when she thought Artie wasn’t looking, quickly took a much daintier bite of the cracker and discreetly wiped crumbs off the tablecloth. Artie munched his food unenthusiastically, glancing around the table with his eyes half-shut. The conversation had moved to Edward G. Robinson’s gangster movies. Artie interrupted BeBe’s advocacy for Little Caesar.

  “Mob movies are for men. Women who like them are indulging in unfeminine pretense.”

  “Oh, really?” BeBe flashed back. “If that’s your opinion you can keep it to yourself. Or go back in the Victorian period. I’m a proud citizen of the world of today!” She poked at her peas and said no more of Mr. Robinson.

  “I like mobster movies,” Myrtle chimed in, her eyes glinting. “Are you saying I am not feminine?”

  Artie was unembarrassed. “If you’re a woman who counts, you don’t really like them. You might be the sort of woman who scrapes out an existence on the periphery of things. In that case you can do whatever you like. I don’t care.”

  BeBe, Faye noticed with amusement, took even tinier bits of the cracker and constantly glanced at Artie out of the corners of her eyes. She acted as if a scion of majesty had just landed in their living room. A grand voice from the lands of culture in which they always ate crackers correctly.

  Artie rapped his fork on the table. “Grover! It’s 2:45! Get with it now. Tell them. Got to tell them about the scheme. The plan. The big do.”

  Grover thumped down his chair leg. “Can it, Spanky, I’m not on trial. Yes, I said ‘can’ it! I went there, Mr. Cannes, don’t blow your gasket.”

  By now the others were perplexed. As Artie’s words sank in, they realized he was here for some reason other than socializing. How perplexing. He had not struck anyone as an overly motivated type or a person likely to show up for business reasons.

  “Well,” Grover began, self-consciously. “The truth is that we’re getting low on funds. Closer to it, I’m getting low on funds. A string of bad luck in New York. And there’s the ranch in Hawaii too. Dad won’t let on about it, but he lost big money on that place after the typhoon. He telephoned me in private two weeks ago. I said to myself, we’ve got to do something.”

  The perplexity had deepened into solid confusion. What exactly was he hinting? It would be rude to ask their beloved guests the Carters to slave over debts that did not concern them—and it would be a tedious chore to involve Mr. Rivers. Grover seemed to think he was saying something wonderful, but everyone else was less certain. The room was very quiet.

  “So Artie and I put our heads together. We’re going to rent off parts of the house and property to people. Not sell—not sell, Ed, don’t worry. Just rent. I mean, we’ve got two hundred acres, a lake, walks, gazebos, more rooms than the queen of England would need, a library liable to keep a university busy for hours. We’d be pretty stupid not to use it,
don’t you think?”

  An excited murmur rose. Helene and Mr. Rivers looked rather baffled. Horace asked about details and offered to help with the project. Myrtle eagerly chimed in with ideas of her own. Voices rose loudly before Ed broke in.

  “Are you crazy?” he exclaimed. “Renting for how long? Renting what—land, furniture, rooms? Is there any plan at all? We could wake up and find we can’t even navigate out of the house because everything is someone else’s property!”

  Grover frowned. “Well, it’s not like we can make money out of thin air. Dad would approve if he knew. He always lectures us about pulling up by our own bootstraps.”

  “This property isn’t yours, it’s Dad’s. We’d be pulling up by his bootstraps, not ours. Besides, we don’t want lots of people swarming in here. Any sort of people.”

  Faye had to agree with Ed. Not only at the disrespect to an elder, but because of something more personal. A tingle ran through her. Possibly they had more in common morally than she’d believed. Nothing could really counterbalance a lack of solid devotion. She just couldn’t share her life with a man who didn’t share her faith, however caressing his voice and derelict his opinions. But if Ed would just settle down for a few minutes . . . then her heart wouldn’t think twice about it, of that she was sure. Well, it wouldn’t have before Helene showed up. Now she’s here. Oops.

  “Besides,” Myrtle continued confidently. “What’s the worst that can happen? Nobody’s going to come here but some high school kids on a picnic or stale old maids wanting to research Honest Abe.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Grover added. “Myrtle’s quite right, don’t overblow it, Ed. We’ll respect Dad’s old dustables and all that. In fact, the first people who are coming only want to rent the lake pavilion for a concert under the stars. A banker and his wife—into classical music.”

  “How sweet,” Helene purred. “My mother loves that stuff. Yep, she’s quite into the Rachmaninoff. There’s something lovely about coming home of an evening to hear her playing the piano.”

  Her blue eyes darted fun and mischief. She really was captivating and clever. Faye didn’t blame Ed for liking her. She couldn’t help liking her, and she was her rival! Faye sighed and returned to Grover’s plans to make money without Uncle Warren’s permission. He explained that this wealthy older couple who wanted to rent the lawn for a music concert were named Waterton.

  “They’re coming to check out the property today,” he finished cheerfully.

  BeBe’s head shot up. “Today? Wait . . . you don’t mean right now?”

  The clock chimed as a distant rapping was heard at the door. Everyone waited, petrified, as the raps continued. Faye looked into Artie’s birdlike eyes for a minute before he turned to BeBe. BeBe gulped as if she’d swallowed a small rock. The raps continued. The lack of action continued. Nobody knew what to do.

  Horace threw aside his chair and pushed open the dining room door. Faye couldn’t help but notice how he dominated every room he was in, even though he wasn’t very tall. “I’ll be happy to help you show them over the lawn, Grover.”

  “Wait, I’ll . . . go too,” Myrtle babbled, throwing down her napkin.

  The three of them rushed off together. After a moment Ed and Artie did the same, and Helene followed, leaving the table almost deserted. BeBe and Faye glanced at each other and then at Mr. Rivers, who did not seem to understand the situation fully.

  “Do you think they’ll need us too?” Faye ventured.

  BeBe clattered her fork into her plate. “I’m going anyway. I’m quite as likely to be useful to Grover as Myrtle. I’ve always had a good head for math.”

  That argument was good enough for Faye, and she followed suit. What greeted her downstairs was one of the most remarkable scenes she had ever witnessed.

  Grover stood talking to a married couple in their fifties. They seemed good, respectable people in their prime. The sort of people who talked about checks and balances, the most interesting companions imaginable. The man had wide, fishy lips, was balding, and wore a suit—his very cheerful, full-figured wife wore jingling crimson jewelry and carried a large umbrella which she used as a cane. Horace took the woman’s arm gallantly while the rest stood awkwardly nearby.

  “Yes. Top of the line. Best for miles around,” Grover bellowed. “Our Bellevere lake is famous the world over.”

  Mr. Waterton turned sharp, inquisitive eyes on him. “Really? In what way is it so valuable? The wood used in the construction of the lakeside pavilion, perhaps?”

  Grover looked at Ed, who frantically waved his hands. Armed with this unhelpfulness, Grover proceeded on his own. “The site. Yes, Mr. Waterton, the site is everything in placing outdoor entertainment. Not too low—don’t want it to get flooded out. Not too high—don’t want it to stick above the house like a party hat, do we?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Waterton, glancing at each other, appeared to agree. Grover pushed them towards the door. “Quality is based on the site. Lakeside clubs and pavilions all look the same, but some have a magical setting and some don’t.”

  Mrs. Waterton tapped her husband with the umbrella. “That’s true enough. Remember the Covoff’s pavilion?”

  Mr. Waterton chuckled softly, thickly, as if relishing the humor.

  His wife shook her head. “Flies. Stinging insects everywhere. It was built near a creek, and visitors came back speckled like the smallpox. Disgraceful.”

  How terrible! And how many interesting experiences these people must have had in their lives. They’re the sort of married people who help each other write novels, always sharing a secret joke. They make me feel profoundly comfortable and happy.

  Mr. Waterton, his bald head and face shining like a polished doorknob, held out his hand genially to Grover. He was overall a remarkably friendly man, and his green, froglike eyes flashed with mirth and human interest. “Are you Mr. Warren Haverton? We want the house owner to show us the property and discuss possible rental terms.”

  Ed and BeBe looked helpless at this new impediment. Grover’s sketchy plan had taken no account of such business details, and he was naturally reluctant to pretend to be his father. But something had to be done. The Watertons were waiting. Gulping, he seized the first person his eyes alighted on—Artie Cannes.

  “No. I’m just the . . . irrigation engineer! Mr. Haverton there called on me to lay down irrigation lines in the gardens. Mr. Haverton there, he’s your man.”

  “Irrigation engineer?” Faye whispered incredulously to Helene. Why did you say that, Grover? You don’t even know what that is!

  Chapter 11

  Artie blinked as the cheery Watertons turned expectantly to him. He didn’t mind impersonating a man of stature like Uncle Warren. Why, it would hardly be an impersonation at all, since Artie was a man of stature himself with a family business in radio! But he needed a moment to collect his thoughts before he blazed full tilt into the role.

  “Yes, yes, got to keep everything tight. Scalawags and delinquents begone, I say. What the blazes are you kids doing down here at this time of the day?” he shrieked, waving his right arm as if it were tangled in his jacket.

  Ed raised an eyebrow. “It’s three in the afternoon. Why shouldn’t we be up and about?”

  Artie put a hand to his waist and adopted a pose. Faye stifled a giggle. Was he aware the first image that popped into her head was of Andrew Carnegie in his old age, posing for a daguerreotype? “Not one of you kids is fit to live, not one! You don’t know what it takes to keep this place running. Well now, do you know? That’s right, you don’t.” Artie cast a cold, incriminating gaze on Grover. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out there and do as you’re told. I knew I should have sent you into the military.”

  Mrs. Waterton, her copious dress bobbling, tapped her umbrella on the ground. She meant to interrupt Artie before he shouted instructions for another ten minutes. Thank you, dear lady. “Are these other people your guests, Mr. Haverton? We can come back later. Walt and I had been told you were avai
lable today, but we don’t want to intrude.”

  Oh, dear. Another roadblock. This is getting worse by the minute.

  As if seized by some fiendish genius, Myrtle yanked Horace towards her and put her arm through his. “No, I’m Warnie’s sister, actually. Our father, Old Warren, died last year. So sad. But my husband and I are visiting the old home place and we brought a few friends.” She leaned into Horace and gave a tremendous smile that drowned her entire face.

  The others froze at this startling fabrication. Dead? They killed off Uncle Warren? Faye could not help mouthing the words in horror. What will they say next, that Artie and I are in love? That would be a textbook example of a lie.

  Mrs. Waterton, exclaiming in delight, held out her hand to grasp Myrtle’s. Her handshake was surprisingly extremely firm and her eyes locked rather hypnotically, penetratingly on Myrtle’s for a brief moment. “I felicitate you! So you are Mr. Haverton’s sister? I thought Mr. Haverton was an older man, though.” She glanced at Artie. “I’ve never heard of you.”

  Mr. Rivers’ voice broke in. He had finally come in from the dining room. “Married? If you’re married to Horace, what am I?”