Camilla looked as if she was trying to fight off a cramp. Webb turned to Janey to see if she was savoring the moment and was startled to catch a spark of irritation in her eyes.
“How very interesting.” Camilla took a deep breath. “Do come into the parlor, Janey. It’ll be a few minutes until lunch is served, so let’s take advantage of the chance to chat and get to know each other.” She led the way.
Janey started to follow Camilla, but within three feet she’d stopped once more to look around. “It’s amazing, isn’t it, that with the size of this space, voices don’t echo.”
“It’s an engineering feat,” Webb said. “Even though the walls look straight, they’re actually curved just enough to push the sound on, not bounce it back. Believe me, you don’t want the details. It’s far too complicated.”
She looked straight at him, and though he didn’t understand why, Webb felt icy tingles slither down his spine. He was glad Camilla was already in the parlor, settling herself in her favorite chair by the fireplace, too far away to get a good view of the face-off in the foyer.
Janey’s voice was very low, and it was so sweet it could induce a diabetic coma all by itself. “Too complicated for me to understand? Is that what you meant?”
“Not exactly. I just thought it was hardly your sort of—”
“And you probably also think I couldn’t possibly comprehend that though this house is an extremely late example of the Greek revival style, it’s architecturally significant not only because of the acoustical engineering techniques that Henry Bellows employed when he designed it but because it’s one of the first residences he built with steel framing and not just timber and masonry. You’re right—it’s completely beyond me.”
She spun on her heel and swept into the parlor.
There wasn’t an echo in the hall, he reminded himself. There never had been, for Henry Bellows’s engineering skills had prevented it.
But Webb’s ears were ringing nevertheless.
CHAPTER THREE
EVEN BEFORE SHE’D crossed the sea of oriental carpet to where Camilla Copeland was sitting by the fireplace, Janey had already admitted to herself that telling Webb off almost under his grandmother’s nose probably hadn’t been the smartest thing she’d ever done.
But it had certainly felt good.
She took the chair Camilla indicated and held out her hands to the crackling fire. “Wood fires are so beautiful,” she said, “and so welcome on a gray day like this.”
“Then you aren’t a fan of gas logs? I’ve never liked them.” Camilla smiled. “But then I’m not the one who has to carry the wood inside or the ashes out, so perhaps I have a biased view of the subject.” She looked up. “Webb, why don’t you get Janey a sherry? Or something else—I’m sure you know better than I what she’d like.”
With her back turned to the room, Janey hadn’t heard Webb approach, and when she caught sight of him, she thought he looked as if he could quite cheerfully drop cyanide in whatever beverage she chose. She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not much of a sherry drinker. Or anything else, really. Working around the machines has made me much more careful.”
Camilla nodded toward Janey’s left hand. “You’re being cautious with that ring as well, I hope.” She picked up a mass of rose-colored yarn from a basket beside her chair and placidly began to knit.
Janey looked down at the brilliant diamond. Last night under the factory lights it had looked almost garish. Today, as the stone reflected the flickering flames, it seemed quieter, classic—and mysterious. “Of course I wouldn’t put something this valuable at risk.”
Camilla shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Years ago my father-in-law nearly lost a finger when one of the machines caught his lodge ring. Smashed it almost flat. The ring, I mean—though the finger was pretty well crushed, too.”
Webb poured a tiny glass of golden liquid for Camilla from the drinks tray, and set it on the table by her elbow. “Gran would be much more sympathetic if it had been his wedding band instead of a symbol of his mens’ club.” His voice was dry.
Was he going to pretend the whole exchange in the hallway had never happened? Eager to seize her cue, Janey looked up at him with a quick smile. But he obviously hadn’t intended the remark to be humorous, for his eyes were still chilly. He leaned against the mantel with his arms folded across his chest. He was looking at her, Janey thought, as if she’d suddenly turned into a malaria-carrying mosquito and he was figuring out how to swat her. She began to wish she’d accepted a drink anyway, just so she’d have the glass to keep her hands busy.
Camilla daintily sipped her sherry and returned to her knitting. “I’m so glad you like the house, Janey. How thoroughly unpleasant it would be to live somewhere you didn’t care for—and I’m afraid Webb would never give this place up.”
For an instant, Janey’s breath caught. But perhaps she was being too sensitive? Camilla’s first sight of her had been as Janey stared around the hall; the woman would have to be dense as a tree trunk not to have realized at a glance that Janey had been thoroughly impressed. It didn’t mean she’d overheard any of that squabble in the foyer.
Reassured, Janey found herself wondering how the dream girl Webb thought he’d hired would respond to that comment. “It’s just the right size to hold all my relatives—at least the ones who’ll be living with us”?
“It’s awe-inspiring,” she said finally. “Almost like a museum.”
“I remember that feeling when I came here as a bride.”
Was there the slightest trace of acid in Camilla’s voice?
Camilla looked up from her knitting, her eyes bright and inquisitive. “It sounded just now as if you’ve made a special study of Henry Bellows, Janey. He’s dear to our hearts, of course, but compared to the more famous architects who worked in the Chicago area he’s almost an unknown.”
Janey’s throat closed up till she was absolutely sure she’d never be able to draw a breath again. She had underestimated the acoustics of the hallway; it might not echo, but it obviously made even a whisper carry—for it was apparent Camilla Copeland had overheard a good part of that low-voiced exchange.
The only comfort Janey could find was Webb’s stunned look; he was obviously as startled as she was.
Terrific, she thought. Now he was furious and surprised. She’d really done it up big.
Camilla went on, calmly, “Architecture is one of Webb’s favorite subjects, I know—I think the interest has been handed down in the genes ever since his great-grandfather commissioned this house. Was it the love of buildings which brought you together? And how, I wonder, did that subject happen to come up on the assembly line?”
Janey reflected, almost calmly, that hers was likely to be the shortest engagement in the history of western civilization. She waited for Webb to say something that would squash her as completely as his great-grandfather’s ring.
But he was silent, apparently unwilling to step in—either to rescue her or put her out of her misery. And it was far too late for Janey to play dumb on the subject, for she didn’t dare take the chance of underestimating precisely how much Camilla had heard.
“My faculty adviser in the college of architecture is a Bellows fan,” she admitted. “He’s always using examples of his work—just a few months ago when we were studying acoustical engineering he got almost poetic about your foyer.”
Webb looked as if he were strangling.
“Of course, when I first heard about this house, I never expected to see the interior.”
“Webb must give you the complete tour after lunch,” Camilla said.