The Night Mark(43)

“I see you added a light in here,” Mr. Hartwell said, standing by the fireplace and looking up at the hanging brass-and-white-glass light fixture in the center of the ceiling. His hands were in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his shiny shoes.

“First thing I did to the house,” Carrick said. “They dismantled a railroad station and sold me their lights and the wiring at a good price. Now that the lighthouse has been converted to run on acetylene, it wasn’t anything to convert the house to run on it, too.”

“Light makes a house a home,” Hartwell said, running his fingers along the fireplace mantel as if inspecting it for dust. “You’ve got to modernize or you might as well be living in the past. You can’t stay still. That’s what I told Daddy when he said y’all made changes to his house. I said, ‘Daddy—you’ve had indoor plumbing and gas lights for ten years in this house. Don’t you think a war hero and his daughter deserve those same creature comforts?’”

“Not everyone who goes to war is a hero,” Carrick said, looking both humble and awkward. “But I wanted Faith here to have all the comforts of home. Any father would.”

“You’re too modest, Carrick. Is that an Irish trait? If so, I never heard of it. But anyway, Daddy conceded I had a point, and if you know Daddy, you know I had a good point.”

“I didn’t know your father objected to improvements,” Carrick said.

“Oh, he thinks anything he touches is perfect,” Hartwell said, shaking his head. “Myself included.”

“The house is perfect,” Faye said. “And with more light, we can see how perfect it is. You can’t admire a Rembrandt in the dark, can you?”

Hartwell looked at Faye and narrowed his eyes. Then he laughed a big laugh.

“You’re exactly right, Miss Morgan. That’s what I’ll tell Daddy if he brings it up again. You can’t admire a Rembrandt in the dark. He’ll like that.”

“Good,” Faye said. “We want to keep Daddy happy.’’

“Yes, Miss Morgan. Yes, we do.” He turned and gazed around the rest of the living room. “It all looks mighty fine to me. Cozy. You’re a good little housekeeper, Miss Morgan.”

“Faith hasn’t been here much more than a week,” Carrick said. “Miss Dolly is our housekeeper.”

“I’m sure you’ll be running the whole show in no time at all, Miss Morgan,” Hartwell said. “I see a big passel of books over there. Who’s the reader in the house?”

“We all read when we get the chance, which isn’t often,” Carrick said. “But most of those were donations. Half of them came with the house, and the other half came in a crate after I moved in.”

“Donations?” Hartwell moved to examine the titles. “Well, that explains a few things. Some of these books over here might not be fit reading for a young lady. Or anybody.” Hartwell held up a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and opened it to the middle. The book was upside down. He picked up a couple more and opened them, but seemingly found nothing worth his attention.

“Should we take a look upstairs?” Hartwell asked. “I imagine it looks a whole lot different without four Landry rascals running around.”

“Upstairs is Faith’s room,” Carrick said.

“Is it? Wouldn’t the lighthouse keeper want to stay in the room where he could best see the light at night?” Hartwell asked, fanning himself with his boater.

“The lighthouse keeper is awake all night, Mr. Hartwell,” Faye said, although she’d planned on keeping her mouth shut. “He sleeps during the day.”

“Is that so?” Hartwell said. “I stand corrected.”

“A young lady needs a bigger room for her clothes and things,” Carrick said. “And her privacy. Nothing to see really.”

“Of course. Nothing to see,” Hartwell agreed. Faye sensed he did want to see something upstairs. Was Hartwell acting funny on purpose? Or were all rich Southern white men in 1921 this high-handed, dandified and obnoxious? Whatever he was, he was driving her crazy. She needed to keep her mouth shut or she was going to say something to get herself into big trouble.

“Would you like to see the garden?” Carrick asked. “Now, that is something worth seeing.”

Hartwell glanced at the stairs before pasting on a smile again.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Faye followed Carrick and Hartwell to the back door. Dolly was currently squatting in the corner of the kitchen with a dustpan and a brush, giving all her attention to sweeping along the side and back of the stove and doing her level best to avoid eye contact with any of them. If Dolly had reason to mistrust Hartwell, Faye wouldn’t trust him, either. Teenage girls could be uncannily good judges of male character.

“Hello there, girl,” Hartwell said to Dolly. Dolly didn’t look up or answer. “Y’all have a mouse in your house.”

“She’s deaf, Mr. Hartwell,” Faye said.

“Deaf? Can she talk?”

“She’s been deaf all her life,” Carrick said. “She doesn’t speak. She writes.”

“Writes? Her? Well, I guess she had to learn something to take orders from y’all. Must be nice not having to hear her chattering away all day,” Hartwell said. “I need a deaf-mute working for me. The girl at my place wouldn’t shut up if you gagged her with a gourd. Let me know if y’all want to get rid of your mouse. I’ll take her off your hands.”