The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,38

of a heavy cotton material.

“We think it’s her uniform from the Asylum,” Jules replied. His eyes were fixed on the portrait, and he was frowning deeply, as if trying to figure out why his mother appeared so angry. “Apparently she volunteered her services as a Gray Lady at some point. Oddly enough, though, I don’t ever remember seeing her wear that uniform. Until last week, I had no idea the portrait even existed.” He turned to Oliver. “Do you remember ever seeing my mother like that?”

But Oliver Metcalf wasn’t listening. The instant he’d seen the picture, a sharp pain flashed through his head, and a vision appeared in his mind.

The boy, naked and terrified, is shivering in the huge room.

His thin arms are wrapped around his body in a vain effort to keep himself warm.

The man appears, and the boy shrinks away from him, but there is no escape. The man holds a sheet in his hands—a wet sheet—and though the boy tries to slip past the man and dash from the room, the man catches him in the sheet as easily as a butterfly is caught in a net. In an instant the icy cold sheet engulfs the boy, who opens his mouth to scream—

* * *

“Oliver?” Jules Hartwick said again. “Oliver, is something wrong?”

Abruptly, the strange vision vanished. His headache eased and Oliver managed a small smile. “I’m fine,” he assured Jules. He looked up at the portrait once more, half expecting the pounding pain behind his eyes to return, but this time there was nothing. Just the painting of Jules’s mother in the uniform the volunteers at the Asylum had worn decades ago. Vaguely, he remembered reading somewhere how it had once been the fashion for people of means to have portraits done that reflected their professions or avocations. The costume, he ventured a guess to Jules, was Mrs. Hartwick’s way of proclaiming her service to the town.

“I suppose so,” Jules agreed. “But the weird thing is, I don’t even remember Mother volunteering. But she must have, mustn’t she?” He glanced up at the portrait again, then shook his head. “Easy to see why she put it up in the attic the minute it was done. But I think it could be kind of fun up at the Center, don’t you? Maybe we can find pictures of some of the other women, and make it the centerpiece of an exhibit. Call it ‘The Do-Gooders of Blackstone’ or something.”

“Jules!” Madeline exclaimed. “Those women took their work very seriously, and did a lot of good.”

“I’m sure they did,” Jules said. “But you still have to admit that Mother looks pretty unhappy about the whole thing.”

“I’m sure her expression had nothing to do with her work at the Asylum,” Madeline insisted. But then she relented, and a smile played around her lips. “Actually, she looks almost as disapproving as she did the day you married me.”

“Well, she got over that,” Jules said, slipping an arm around his wife as the quartet in the minstrel’s gallery began playing a waltz. “Marrying you was still the best thing I ever did.” Pulling Madeline close, he swept her across the library floor in a few graceful steps. A moment later the rest of the party had joined in the dancing.

The portrait on the wall, and Jules’s mother, were quickly forgotten as the party swirled on.

Rebecca felt as though she were going to suffocate.

The air in the room was thick with smoke from the rows of votive candles that lined the altar, and heavy with the choking perfume of incense.

The droning of Gregorian chants didn’t quite drown out the sound of her aunt’s voice as Martha Ward, on her knees next to Rebecca, mumbled her supplications and fingered the rosary beads she held in trembling hands.

An agonized Christ gazed down from the cross on the wall above the altar. Rebecca cringed as her eyes fixed on the trickle of painted blood oozing from the spear wound in his side. Feeling his pain as vividly as he must have felt it himself, she quickly moved her gaze away from the suffering figure.

It had been nearly two hours since they finished supper, and her aunt had led her here to beg forgiveness for the thoughts she had harbored during the meal. But how could Aunt Martha have known what crossed her mind when she caught a glimpse of the party going on next door? She’d barely had time to think at all before Aunt Martha, seeing