The buff-colored wallpaper continued on the second floor, as did the spare lighting, the silence, and the depressing absence of furniture. When Mr. Bellamy finally ushered us into the music room, it was like reaching an oasis after a long sojourn in a desert.
The music room, unlike the entrance hall, was simply but elegantly furnished. The Aubusson carpet looked as though it had been dyed to match the soft greens and pale golds in the silk wall-coverings and the stiff brocade drapes. A half dozen gilt-framed landscapes hung on the walls, and a few choice antiques—two George III armchairs, a mahogany drum table, a Chippendale sofa—had been arranged around the handsome Adam fireplace. A modest coal-fire burned in the grate, and a row of porcelain figurines graced the mantelshelf—a shepherd, a shepherdess, a winsome milkmaid. A pair of floor lamps with fringed shades flanked the sofa, and, much to my surprise, both were lit.
There were other notable antiques scattered around the music room, but the crowning glory was a gleaming black grand piano. It projected into the room from a U-shaped alcove with windows that would have framed magnificent views of the grove if they hadn’t been covered from ceiling to fl oor by the heavy brocade drapes.
A middle-aged woman sat at the piano’s keyboard, playing music so sweetly plaintive that it brought a lump to my throat and made my heart tremble with undefi ned longing. She went on playing after Mr. Bellamy led us into the room, as though she were so absorbed in the melancholy tune that she hadn’t noticed our entrance.
Mr. Bellamy raised a fi st to his mouth and cleared his throat, to catch the woman’s attention. She played one last poignant chord before looking up from the keys.
“Your guests have arrived, Miss Charlotte,” the old man informed her.
Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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“Thank you, Bellamy,” said the woman. “You may go.”
The butler bowed to her and exited the room, closing the door silently as he left.
I hadn’t realized how clearly I’d envisioned Charlotte DuCaral until she rose from the piano bench and crossed the room to greet us. In my mind’s eye, she was an attenuated, white-faced ghoul with raven hair and bloodred lips, dressed in a tight-fitting black gown with a plunging neckline and a hemline that trailed behind her spiky heels. Her fingernails, like her canine teeth, were long and pointed, and her eyes were outlined in black and shadowed with dark makeup.
I’d unconsciously assumed that she would have rancid breath, cadaver-cold hands, an unnaturally strong grip, and the sort of twitchiness that came with heightened senses, but I’d also assumed that her oddities would be offset by her immense charm, because, as Aunt Dimity had pointed out, a vampire could be immensely charming . . . when it’s attempting to seduce a potential victim. I had, of course, labeled myself and Kit as potential victims the moment we’d entered Aldercot Hall.
My preconceived notions crumbled into dust as soon as Mr.
Bellamy spoke his employer’s name, and when the real Charlotte DuCaral left her place at the piano and walked toward us, I felt myself shriveling with embarrassment at my own foolishness.
Miss Charlotte was tall and slender, but by no means attenuated, and she’d pinned her long hair up in a tidy bun. She had the fair skin of a woman whose white hair had once been blond, but she wasn’t unnaturally pale, and although her face was careworn, she’d made no effort to conceal it or her blue-gray eyes behind a mask of makeup.
Instead of a clingy black gown, she wore a matronly navy-blue cardigan over a pale blue blouse tucked into a gray tweed skirt, and there was nothing spiky about her plain black pumps. Her only adornments were a pair of simple pearl earrings and a double strand of pearls around her neck.
136 Nancy Atherton
When she smiled at us, she revealed a row of perfectly normal teeth, and when she held her hand out to shake mine, I saw that her nails were trimmed to a length that wouldn’t impede her piano playing. Her handshake was firm, but not overwhelmingly so, and her hand was warmer than mine. I didn’t even try to smell her breath.
“How do you do?” she said. “As you may have gathered, I am Charlotte DuCaral, the mistress of Aldercot Hall, but there’s no need to observe the formalities. You must call me Charlotte, and with your permission, I shall call you Lori and . . . Kit, is it?”
“Yes,” said Kit. “It’s short for Christopher. And yes, you may call me Kit.”
“Everyone calls me Lori,” I chimed in. “You play the piano beautifully, Charlotte. What piece were you playing when we came in?”
“It doesn’t have a name,” said Charlotte. “I like to improvise.”
She shrugged as if to ward off further compliments, then put a finger to her lips and peered anxiously at our unusual attire. “Oh, dear. How dreadfully awkward you must feel. Won’t you sit down?
Awkwardness is always reduced by half when one is sitting down.”
She motioned us toward the armchairs, and when we were