A frown put furrows in his forehead. "Please go. Just turn around and don't say a word."

"No, I'm not going until you tell me who you are!" "Who are you to ask?"

"First you tell me who you are."

"Please, you are wasting my time. Go away now and let me finish what I'm doing. These are private quarters, my quarters. Off limits to the servants of Farthinggale Manor. Now scat!" He threw me a quick, surveying glance that didn't linger on any feature or point of my figure that other men stared at, before again I was presented with his back.

He took my breath away! It hurt to be scanned over, then tossed aside as if unworthy of simple good manners. Stupid me and my hillybilly pride! I'd always had too much pride. Pride that had made me suffer unnecessarily many a time, when it would have been so much easier just to let go of something that had no real value. And still that pride rose high and indignant as it always did when someone like him looked down on someone like me! I made myself dislike him. Nothing but a servant, that's what. A hired hand put in a gardener's cottage to repair ancient silverplate! And with the rush of that unlikely conclusion, I spat out in a totally un-Jillian way: "Are you a servant?" I stepped closer to force him to face me and really see me. "The gardener or one of his hired hands?"

His head was bowed to his work. "Please, you are in my home, I am not in yours. I don't have to answer your questions. Who I am is not important to you. Just get out and leave me alone. You are not the first woman to say she's lost her way in the maze, and they all end up here. There is a path that follows outside the maze that will lead you back to where the maze begins. A child could follow it--even in a fog."

"You saw me coming!"

"I heard you coming."

I don't know what made me yell. "I'm not a servant here!" I flared in Pa's and f.a.n.n.y's loud country way, startling even myself. "Farthinggale Manor is the home of my grand . . . my aunt and uncle, who asked me to come and stay." And all the fears crouching in my mind told me to run, and run fast.

This time when he faced me it was fully, so I saw and felt the full impact of his masculinity as I'd never felt it radiate from any man before. His dark eyes were hidden in shadows as they looked me over, this time slowly taking in my face, my throat, my heaving bosom, waist; hips, legs, then back up again, slowly, slowly. And when his eyes had again reached my face, they paused to gaze at my lips before they looked long and deeply into my eyes. I felt drained before he moved his eyes, which had gone slightly unfocused. Oh! I was affecting him, I could tell; something he'd seen made his lips tighten, his hands clench. Turning from me, he picked up that d.a.m.ned little hammer again, as if to continue on and let nothing interfere with what he was doing! I cried out a second time, my voice Casteel loud, Casteel angry: "Stop! Why can't you be civil to me? This is my first day here and my host and hostess have gone to a dinner party and left me alone with servants to entertain myself, and I don't know what to do with myself. I need someone to talk to--and they didn't tell me that anyone like you lived on the grounds."

"Like me? What do you mean by that?"

"Young like you are. Who are you?"

"I know who you are," he said, as if reluctant to speak at all. "I wish you hadn't come. I didn't plan for us to meet. But it's not too late. Just walk out the door with both hands stretched forward, and in fifty steps you will collide with the hedge. Once you feel it before you, keep your right hand on the hedge, let it trail along as you walk to the left, and in no time at all you will be back at the big house. The library has a nice selection of books, if you like to read. And there's a TV there if you don't. And in the closet there are photograph alb.u.ms on the third shelf from the bottom. They should amuse you. And if all else fails, the chef in the kitchen is very friendly and loves to talk. His name is Ryse Williams, but we all call him Rye Whiskey."

"Who are you?" I shouted, furious with him.

"I really don't see what difference it makes to you; however, since you keep insisting, my name is Troy Langdon Tatterton. Your 'uncle' is my older brother."

"You have to be lying!" I cried. "They would have told me you were here, if you are who you say you are!"

"I don't find it necessary to lie over trifles such as who I am. Perhaps they don't even know I am here. After all, I am over twenty-one. I don't send them advance notice when I come to my own cottage and workshop. Nor do I tell them when I go."

I floundered. "But . . . but, why don't you live in the big house?"

His smile shone briefly. "I have my reasons for liking it better here. Do I have to explain them to you?"

"But there are so many rooms in that house, and this place is so small," I murmured, quite embarra.s.sed now, so much so I hung my head and felt totally miserable. He was right, of course. I had made a jacka.s.s of myself. What right did I have to pry into his reasons?

This time he put his small hammer into a special niche on the wall where other tools were placed in neat order. His deep-set, serious eyes were sad, full of something I didn't understand when they met mine. "What do you know about me?"

My knees folded and I sat automatically on a small sofa before the fire. He sighed when he saw me do this, as if he would have liked for me to walk out his door, but I didn't want to believe he really wanted that. "I know only what your brother has told me. And that's not too much. He said you are brilliant, and graduate from Harvard when you were eighteen."

He got up from the table and came to sprawl in a chair across from mine and waved all that I'd said away as if it were annoying smoke that ruined the atmosphere. "I have done nothing important with my so-called brilliance, so I might as well have been born with an IQ of fifty."

My lips gaped open to hear him say something so totally opposed to what I believed. When you had an education, you had the world by its tail! "But you graduated from one of the world's best universities!"

At last I'd made him smile. "I see that you are impressed. I'm glad. Now my education has gained some value, at least seen through your eyes."

He made me feel young, naive--a fool. "What do you do with your education except hammer on metal like any two-year-old?"

"Touche," he said with a grin that made him twice as appealing, and G.o.d knows he already appealed to me enough.

I was ashamed to see how easily my physical side could vanquish my intelligence. My anger flared against him. "Is that all you've got to say?" I stormed. "In my own crude way I just tried to insult you."

He didn't even appear offended as he stood up and went back to the table and picked up that irresistible little hammer again. "Why don't you tell me who I am?" I urged. "Give me my name, if you know so much."

"In a moment, please," he said politely. "I've got many tiny suits of armor to make for a very special collector who prizes this sort of thing." He held up a bit of the silver shaped like an S. "These tiny bits will have holes at either end eventually, and when they are fitted one to the other with little bolts, the chain-link mail will move freely, allowing the wearer to be very active, unlike the suits of armor that came later."

"But aren't you a Tatterton? Don't you own that company? Why should you waste your efforts on something others can do?"

"You want to know so much! But satisfy this question, because so many others have asked the same thing. I like working with my hands, and I have nothing better to do."

Why was I being so hateful to him? He was like some fantasy figure I'd created long ago, here in the flesh, waiting for me to discover him, and now that I had, I was making him dislike me.

Unlike Logan, who seemed strong and confident as the Rock of Gibraltar, Troy seemed very vulnerable, like I was. He hadn't said one word to chastise my ugly behavior, and yet I sensed he was hurt. He seemed a violin strung too tightly, ready to tw.a.n.g at the least careless touch.

Then, when I didn't even try to interrupt what he was doing, he put away his hammer and turned to smile at me winningly. "I'm hungry. Would you accept my apology for being so rude and stay to have a snack with me, Heaven Leigh Casteel?"

"You know my name!"

"Of course I know your name. I have my eyes and ears, too."

"Did . . . did Jillian tell you about me?"

"No."

"Then who?"

He glanced at his watch and seemed surprised by the time. "Amazing. I thought only a few minutes had pa.s.sed since--I started work this morning." His tone was apologetic. "Time slips by so quickly, I'm always surprised at how the minutes race by, how soon the day is over." His eyes glazed reflectively. "Of course you're right. I am frittering away my life playing with what amounts to silver Tinkertoys." His hands plowed through his hair and mussed the waves that had arranged themselves neatly. "Do you ever think that life is too short? That before you've half finished what you have, in mind, you're old and feeble and the grim reaper is knocking at your door?"

He couldn't be older than twenty-two or three. "No! I never feel like that."

"I envy you. I have always felt I was in a mad race with time, and with Tony." He smiled at me then, quite taking my breath away. "All right, stay. Don't go. Waste my time."

Now I didn't know what to do. I longed to stay, yet I felt embarra.s.sed and frightened.

"Oh, come now," he prodded, "you've got what you wanted, haven't you? And I'm harmless. I like to fool around in the kitchen, though I can't take the time to do more than throw together sandwiches. I don't have a set schedule to eat. I eat when I'm hungry. Unfortunately, I burn up calories as fast as I put them in, so I'm always hungry. So, Heaven, in short order we will have our first meal together."

A meal was due to be served me this very moment in Farthinggale Manor, and I forgot all about that in the excitement of following this man into his kitchen, which resembled the kind of galley they put on yachts, everything close and efficient. He set about opening doors to whisk bread and b.u.t.ter on the table, lettuce, tomatoes, ham, and cheese. Once he had what he wanted from the cupboards, he b.u.t.ted doors closed with his forehead, since both of his hands were full, but not before I had a chance to glimpse the contents. Every shelf was packed neatly, and very full. He had enough food here to last five Casteel children a year-- eaten stingily. As he worked putting the sandwiches together, not wanting my help and insisting I be his guest, sit, and do nothing but talk to entertain him, he appeared both tentatively glad to have me and, at the same time, ill-at-ease and self-conscious. I found it difficult to talk, so he suggested I set the table. I did so quickly, then took the opportunity to have a better look at the cottage. It was not so small, seen from the inside, as it had appeared to be from the outside. It had wings jutting out, leading to other rooms. A man's home, spa.r.s.ely furnished.

Setting the table put me at ease, as keeping busy had always done, so I could turn and watch him without embarra.s.sment. How odd to be here with him like this, in an isolated cottage with darkness and fog shutting us in, as if we were alone in the world. The fire behind me crackled and spat, and sparks sizzled up the chimney. A flush heated my face. I felt too hot and too vulnerable now that making sandwiches had given him something to do. The busy person always seemed more in control than the one watching. I gazed too long at his face, watching the play of the fluorescent lights on his hair, stared too long at his body, astounded at how responsive my body was just to the sight of him. I filled with guilt and shame. How could I feel this way about any man after what Cal had done to me?

I closed off my emotions, clamped down hard on them. I didn't need any man in my life, not now!

"Dinner is served, milady," he called shyly, grinning at me. He pulled a chair for me and I sat before he whipped off a white napkin to expose six sandwiches on the silver platter. Six! Parsley, and radishes made to look like roses, garnished the tray; nestled in parsley beds were deviled eggs, and circling around were wedges of various cheeses, an a.s.sortment of different crackers, and a silver bowl of shiny, red apples. Polished apples. All this when he had planned to eat alone?

Why, back in the w.i.l.l.i.e.s we could have lived a week on all this food, Granny, Grandpa, Tom, f.a.n.n.y, Keith, Our Jane. . . all of us!

Then he brought out two bottles of wine, one red, one white. Wine! What Cal had ordered for me in fancy restaurants when I lived with him and Kitty in Candlewick. And wine had fuzzed my brain and made me accept what otherwise might have been avoided.

No! I couldn't afford to make another mistake! I jumped to my feet and s.n.a.t.c.hed up my coat! "I'm sorry, but I can't stay," I said. "You didn't want me to know you were here anyway . . . so I'll pretend that you aren't!"

In a flash I was out the door and racing toward the hedge in a night so black it was frightening. The damp ground fog swirled about my legs, and far behind me I heard him calling my name.

"Heaven, Heaven!"

What a strange name my mother had chosen to give me, I thought for the first time in my life. Not a person, a place; then tears were in my eyes and I was crying. Crying for no reason at all.

Four For Better or Worse .

"I MUST WARN YOU," SAID TONY THE FOLLOWING morning at breakfast, while Jillian was still upstairs sleeping. "The maze is more dangerous than it looks. If I were you, I'd leave exploring to those who've had more experience with that sort of thing."

It was just a little after six, and dawn was terribly similar to twilight, but for the hot blueberry m.u.f.fins and the luscious spread of food on the buffet. The butler was in his place, close to the array of food in silver dishes, ready to spring into action to serve the two of us, who sat at a table that could have seated eight. Unreality had me in a daze. This was the way I'd dreamed it would be. The naive country girl I used to be hovered near my shoulder, shivering with delight, enjoying everything ten times more than did the girl I actually was now--suspicious, nervous, scared I'd do something so gross neither Jillian nor Tony would want to see me again. As for Troy, I planned never to go near him. He was too dangerous.

Tentatively, I tasted each delicious dish Curtis put before me, truly the most wonderful breakfast I'd ever had in my life, and certainly the most satisfying one. Why, with this kind of food inside of me, living energy, I could have run all the way to school. Then came the sarcastic thought that maybe the food was so good only because I'd had nothing to do with the preparation. And I'd have nothing to do with the cleaning-up in the kitchen.

"Curtis, we won't be needing you anymore," said Tony suddenly. I'd convinced myself he was the most helpless man in the world, unable to do one thing to wait on himself. He seemed to take a curious delight in keeping Curtis always on edge, waiting for his slight signals to do this or that. With the departure of the butler, Tony leaned forward. "How do you like your breakfast?"

"It's delicious," I answered with enthusiasm. "I never knew eggs could taste so good."

"My dear, you have just partaken of one of the delicacies of this world, truffles."

But I'd not seen anything resembling a truffle-- whatever that was.

"Never mind," he said, when I stared down at what remained of my el s, smothered in sauce and served over thin, golden pancakes. "Now it's time for you to tell me about yourself. Yesterday on our way here, it seemed to me I saw something in your eyes that looked like anger. Why did you look so indignant every time your father was mentioned?"

"I didn't know that I did," I murmured, flushing and wanting to shout out the truth, and at the same time afraid to say too much. His brother was on my mind more than Pa; it was Troy I wanted to talk about. And yet I had to think of my plans, my dreams, and of Keith and Our Jane's welfare, too. I knew the first step toward their salvation was not to risk my own.

And, carefully at first, I began to construct a new childhood for myself, built on half-truths; the only lies I told were those of omission. "So you see, the woman who died from cancer was not my real mother, but a foster mother named Kitty Dennison, who took care of me when Pa was ill and I had no one else."

He still sat as if in shock from the news that my mother had died on the day I was born. His eyes turned dull, sad. And then came anger, hard, cold, and bitter. "What are you saying, that your father lied? How could a girl as young, strong, and healthy as your mother die in childbirth if not from neglect? Was she in a hospital? Good G.o.d almighty, women don't die giving birth in this day and age!"

"She was very young," I whispered, "perhaps too young to undergo the ordeal. We lived in a fairly decent house, but Pa's carpentry work was never steady. Sometimes our meals were not too nourishing. I can't tell you if she went to a doctor for checkups, for hill people don't believe much in doctors--they believe in taking care of their own ailments. To be honest, old ladies like my granny were more respected than those who had an office in town with an M.D. beside the door."

Was he going to turn against me, too, and for the same reason Pa had? "I wish you wouldn't blame me for her death, like Pa does . . ."

His blue eyes swung to fix on the windows that soared up to the ceiling, framed by deep, rose velvet swags lined with gold. "Why did you sit there yesterday and confirm your father's lies by keeping silent?"

"I was terrified that you would reject me if you knew I came from such a pitifully poor background."

His quick, cold anger surprised me, and told me instantly this man was not another Cal Dennison, easy to fool.

I hurried on, careless now of what kind of impression I was making. "How do you think I felt when I heard that you and Jillian expected me just for a visit? Pa had told me my grandparents were thrilled to have me live with them. And then I learn it is only to be a visit! I have no place to go now. There is n.o.body who wants me, n.o.body! I tried to figure out why Pa lied like he did, thinking, perhaps, that you'd be more concerned for my welfare if you thought me still in grief for my own mother. And in a way I am still in grief for her. I've always missed not knowing her. I wanted to do and say nothing that would change your willingness to keep me, even for a short while. Please, Tony, don't send me back! Let me stay! I don't have a home other than this one. My father is very ill with some terrible nerve disorder that will kill him soon, and he wanted to place me with my own mother's family before this world sees the last of hinl."

His sharp, penetrating gaze rested on me with deep consideration. I cringed inside, so afraid my face would reveal my lies. My towering pride was on its knees, ready to plead and cry and thoroughly humble itself. I began to tremble all over.

"This nerve disease your father has, what did his doctors call it?"

What did I know about nerve diseases? Nothing! My panicky thoughts raced, until I brought to memory something I'd seen on TV once, back in Candlewick. A sad movie. "A famous baseball player died of it once. I find the name of his particular nerve disorder hard to p.r.o.nounce." I tried not to sound too vague. "It's kind of like paralysis, and it ends in death . . ."

He had his blue eyes narrowed now, suspiciously. "He didn't sound a bit sick. In fact his voice was very strong."

"All mountain people have strong voices. You have to make yourself heard when n.o.body minds interrupting."

"Who is taking care of him now that your granny is dead, and I believe you said your grandpa is senile?"

"Grandpa's not really senile!" I flared: "It's just that he wants Granny to be alive so much he pretends she's still with him. That's not crazy, just necessary for someone like him."

"I would call pretending the dead are alive and talking to them, real senility," he said, flatly and without emotion. "And I've already noticed sometimes you call your father Daddy, other times Pa, why is that?"

"Daddy when I like him," I whispered. "Pa when I don't."

"Ahh." He looked me over with more interest.

My voice sounded plaintive, as if I had f.a.n.n.y's way of acting out a role: "My father has always blamed me for my mother's death, and as a result, I have never felt comfortable with him, nor he with me. Still, he would like to see me taken care of for my mother's sake. And Pa can always find some adoring woman to devote herself to his needs until the day he departs this world."

The longest silence came as he considered my information, seeming to turn it this way and that. "A man who can command a woman's devotion even when he is dying cannot be all bad, can he, Heaven? I don't know as there is anyone who would do the same for me."

"Jillian!" I hastily cried.

"Oh, yes, Jillian, of course." Absently he regarded me until I squirmed and grew hot. He was weighing me, judging me, tallying up my a.s.sets and my liabilities. Forever and ever it seemed to go on, even as he gave some small signal and Curtis appeared from nowhere to clear the table, then disappeared. Finally, he spoke.

"Suppose you and I strike a bargain. We will not tell Jillian that your mother died so long ago, for that information would hurt her too much. Right now you have her believing that Leigh had seventeen years of happiness with your father, and it seems a pity to tell her differently. She is not very stable emotionally. No woman can be stable when her entire happiness depends on staying young and beautiful, for it can't last forever. But while she still has a hold on youth, fleeting as it may well be, let's you and I do what we can to make her happy." His piercing eyes narrowed before he went on. "If I give you a home, and all that goes with it--the proper clothes and education, and so forth--I will expect something in return. Are you willing to give what I will demand?"

Thoughtfully, with narrowed eyes, he waited as I stared at him. My first thought was that I had won, I could stay! Then, as he watched me so closely, I began to feel he was a huge, fat cat, and I was a lean church mouse ready to be pounced on. "What will you demand?"

His smile was small and tight. Amused. "You are right to ask, and I'm glad you have a sense of reality. Perhaps you have already found out for yourself that there is a price that has to be paid for everything. I don't think anything I ask will be unreasonable. First, I will demand complete obedience from you. When I make decisions about your future, you will not argue about them. You will accept without quibbling. I was very fond of your mother, and I am sorry she is not alive, but I won't have you coming into my life to bring about complications. Understand right now, if you cause me trouble, or trouble for my wife, I will send you back from whence you came without the slightest regret. For I will consider you an ungrateful fool, and fools don't deserve a second chance." He opened his eyes and gazed at me steadily.

"To give you an idea of the decisions I will make for you, let's begin with my selecting your school and the college you will attend. I will also select your clothes. I despise the way girls dress today, ruining the best part of their lives with shoddy, common clothes and wild, uncared-for hair. You will dress as the girls dressed when I went to Yale. I will supervise the books you read and the movies you see. Not that I am going to be a prude, I just think when you fill your mind with trash you smother those wonderful ideals and ideas most of us have when we are young. I will have final approval of the young men you date, and when you date them. I will expect you always to be polite both to me and to your grandmother. Jillian will make her own rules, I am sure. But right now I'm going to lay down a few.

"Jillian sleeps every day until noon, her 'beauty rest' she calls it. Don't ever disturb her. Jillian does not like to be around dull and boring people, so you won't bring any into this house. Nor will you speak of any unpleasantness in her presence. If you have school or health or social problems, bring them to me in private. It will be best if you never mention the pa.s.sing years, or refer to events in time, or sad stories you read in the newspapers. Jillian has managed to condition herself like an ostrich, sticking her head in the sand whenever other people's problems arise. Let her play her little protective games. When it's necessary, I will be the one to pull her head into the here and now , . not you."

I more than suspected, as I sat there at that long table, that Townsend Anthony Tatterton was a ruthless, cruel man who would use me, just as he no doubt used Milan for whatever purpose he saw fit.

Still, I had no intention of turning down his offer to keep me here and to send me to college. My heart was racing happily toward that wonderful day when I would have my master's degree--suddenly only that seemed desirable.

Standing, I tried to find a voice that didn't quaver. "Mr. Tatterton, all my life I have known my future lay here in Boston, where I can attend the best schools and prepare myself for a life better than what my mother found living in the hills of West Virginia. I want more than anything to finish high 'school and go to an Ivy League college that will give me pride in myself. I have a desperate need to feel proud of myself. I want someday to go back to Winnerrow and to let everyone who knew me when I was poor see just what I've become--but I will not sacrifice my honor or my integrity to accomplish any of those things."

He smiled as if he thought me ridiculous to mention honor and integrity. "I am happy to hear you take those into consideration, though I knew from your eyes that you would. Still, you do expect a great deal from me. I ask only obedience from you."

"It seems to me that a great deal lies beneath the surface of your single demand."

"Yes, perhaps," he agreed, smiling pleasantly. "You see, my wife and I are influential in our own circles and we want nothing to mar our reputations. Members of your family could show up here and be embarra.s.sing. I sense that your father and you are not loving, and at the same time, you are protective of him and your grandfather. And from what I already know about you, you adapt quickly. I suspect in the long run you will soon be more Bostonian than I myself am, and I was born here. But I want no hillbilly relatives of yours showing up, not ever. Nor any of your former friends from West Virginia."

Oh! That was asking too much! I had planned, later on when I had won his confidence and approval, to tell him the whole truth! Tell him all about Pa's having had syphilis that terrible autumn when Sarah gave birth to a deformed dead baby, and Granny died, and Sarah moved away and left her four children and me in that mountain cabin to make do the best we could. And then that horrible winter he'd sold us, sold all five of us for five hundred dollars apiece! Sold us to people who abused us! And how could I ever invite Tom here for a visit, or f.a.n.n.y, much less Keith and Our Jane?--when I found Keith and Our Jane . .

"Yes, Heaven Leigh, I want you to cut off your family ties, forget the Casteels, and become a Tatterton, as your mother should have done. She ran from us. She wrote only one time, just once! Did anyone down there ever mention why she didn't write home?"