Shadows on the Wall Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter 27: That Which Does Not Kill Us

by Luciaphil

Voice-over (Louis Edmonds): Collinsport will soon see the light of day, but the

inhabitants of Collinwood have found their lives infused with a seemingly

endless darkness.  As the forces who thrive on chaos and pain draw closer,

there are those in the great house on the hill who find courage in small

things.

* * *

He had it coming / He had it coming / He took a flower / In its prime / And then he

used it / And he abused it / It was a murder / But not a crime!

--Cell Block Tango, “Chicago” Lyrics by Fred Ebb (quoted without permission)

* * *

 Cassandra’s screams rent the night until they became shrieks.  Losing all

control she stormed, but her fury was not inexhaustible.  Like fire, it

required fuel to keep ablaze.  No one happened by.  Not a stray Collins.  Not a

hapless villager seeking a shortcut home.  Not even a lost dog.  Her French

upbringing reasserted itself.

Why waste all that splendid temperament on oak trees?  Without realizing

why--she was not prone to self-examination--Cassandra eventually let her rage

burn out.

She wasn’t one to have regrets--at least not when it came to her own choices.

Not for her the endless looking back at what she might have done to achieve

some other, more desired outcome. After all, how was it her fault that other

people just kept getting in the way?  They were the shortsighted ones, not she.

Barnabas could have spared his entire family a great deal of grief if he would

have just accepted that they were meant to be together.

What frustrated her was his inability to understand.

What baffled her was his infatuation with virginal Victoria Winters and his

devotion to the superannuated Julia Hoffman.

The nights in Martinique were crystallized in Cassandra’s mind; why weren’t

they so in his?  Even now over a century and a half later, she could recall in

an instant the memories of tangled limbs, the taste of his skin, the feel of

him within her--creating a glorious union that she had never wanted to end.

Every single difference between them: class and background and experience

melting away into nothingness.  She remembered his honeyed word--words that had

come from his heart.  Oh, Barnabas could deny it as much as he wished.  That

did not change facts.  He had given himself to her.  What had happened between

them was irrevocable.  She could see the great house on the hill from her

position in the woods.  It should have been hers, her reward for all those

endless years slaving after Mams’elle.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed at the thought of Josette.  Mams’elle, so sweet, so

demure, so guileless, so pure, so .  .  .  so stupid.  By what right had

Josette been so privileged?

The witch gave herself a shake.  That didn’t matter anymore.  She had gotten

her revenge on Josette.  What mattered was her own relationship with Barnabas.

A bond had been forged in Martinique.  A permanent bond, one that had been

strengthened with their marriage.

Why then did Barnabas prefer to embrace this fiction that they had engaged in

intercourse and nothing more?

That still puzzled her.

Oh, she knew many men for whom that would have been true, anecdotal, not to

mention personal experience had taught her that simple truth, centuries ago.

But with Barnabas .  .  .  it had been different.  He *had* loved her.  She

knew that.

Cassandra pursed her lips.  She had been completely justified.  Her every

action had been to protect the precious thing they had together.  Why was

Barnabas incapable of seeing that?

She had needed him once.  Desperately.  Every cell of her body crying out for

him.  To be with him. To feel his hands upon her body.  To join in such a way

that she didn’t know where her own flesh left off and his began.

Now she only needed to punish him.  To make him pay for what he had done to

her.  To make him to crawl.  To see him beg for forgiveness.  But most

importantly, for him to understand why.

She had thought Barnabas did understand.  The moment he had offered his neck to

her, he’d proved otherwise.  Her exquisite revenge required at least the finish

of his comprehension; it demanded that.  And once again, Barnabas was denying

her what was her due.

The cry of an owl startled her and she drew herself up.  Cassandra licked her

lips.  She could still taste the good doctor’s blood.  Another debt to add to

the mounting tally Barnabas owed her.

Cassandra looked at the outline of Collinwood again.  She would teach Barnabas

what he had done to her.  What he had made her.  Everything owing to her would

be paid--with interest.

* * *

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the

light.

--Dylan Thomas

* * *

Roger stood ramrod straight against a wall in a forgotten room of Collinwood.

He was exhausted and could probably sit down without risking Cassandra’s ire,

but he refused to relax his posture an inch.

At some point, his oh so charming “wife” was going to shut up.  He always

thought of Cassandra’s ostensible position in his life in quotes.  It made it

more bearable.  Roger Collins longed for the day when he would inform her just

how illegal their marriage was.  At the time of his nuptials to Cassandra, his

union with Laura was still quite valid.  Not that Cassandra had the

intelligence to understand that technicalities, however minute, were still

binding.  The mere thought of seeing the perpetual smirk she wore break into

dismay, for even a moment, warmed him.

Not that he was going to waste that kind of ammunition at this point in the

battle.

They were in Act II of her nightly performance with him.  The first moments

were usually spent with her berating him for not carrying out her commands fast

enough.  Then in a gross caricature of the denouement of a James Bond film, she

insisted in launching into the details of her plot for the total domination and

or annihilation of the Collins family.

Cassandra was a very passionate creature; Roger acknowledged that.  As he

possessed a more pragmatic and cynical nature, much of the effect of her

ranting was lost on him.  She’d let her initial spell dissipate; it really

wasn’t necessary, not now that she could control him just as effectively when

she fed on him.  He thought she enjoyed his new awareness more; it was so much

more satisfying to hurt someone who was aware he was being used.

“How can he possibly want her?  She’s forty-five if she’s a day!  She’s a

crone!  She a--”

Oh how, he longed for her to shut up.  Of course, that would mean a jump to Act

III and Roger hated that almost more than listening to the Eva Peron of

Collinsport carry on about her inestimable superiority to anyone Barnabas

Collins cared to look at twice.  Mercifully, she usually kept the third act

short.  Roger knew he owed his existence to a very short list of criteria. He

did not interest Cassandra physically except as a means of sating her physical

hunger, a fact for which he profoundly thanked whatever deity might be watching

over the Collinses.  If indeed, anyone gave the remotest fig for the welfare of

his star crossed family.

“Well, Barnabas will soon know just what it means to--”

What Roger wanted to know, rather dearly, was why he was being forced to endure

this Grand Guignol Dinner Theater of a show every night.  He had never

pretended to have lived an exemplary life, but surely nothing he’d done could

warrant having to listen to this banal horror.

She would trill with laughter now.

She did.  Roger reflected sourly that someone must have told her once that she

had a lovely laugh and that she’d never forgotten it.

Then she’d fix her blue eyes on him and start the interactive part of the

performance.

“And you’re going to help me, aren’t you my dear, dear Roger?”

He glowered at her.  Cassandra preferred that sort of reaction, Roger had

discovered early on.

“AREN’T YOU, ROGER?”

Something to do with her need to make them all pay.  He’d never cared to ask,

as Roger feared it might have to do with the saga of a penmanship medal she

should have won.  He had enough problems in his life without adding the source

material for “The Bad Seed” to the mess. “Yes, Cassandra.”

“You have no choice,” she said smiling.

“None,” he repeated, judiciously bringing a note of despair to his voice.

He could ignore her now as she went into her master plan.  How she was going to

destroy Julia Hoffman.  Check.  How she was going to take care of hoity-toity

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard and anyone else who stood in her way.  Check.  How

she was going to be Mistress of Collinwood and make them all sorry they and

their long-forgotten ancestors were ever mean to her. Check.  How she was going

to bring Barnabas Collins to his knees.  Check.  How she was--

“I SAID, tell me about your sister.”

“Liz?  What on earth do you want to know about her?”

“Not Elizabeth.  Your other sister.”

Roger stared at her; it was taking more than a moment for him to bring his full

attention back to her.  That saved him.  “What are you talking about?”

Cassandra frowned.  She had long been convinced that Roger was a total fool,

possessing only a layer of veneer between his exterior and the vacuity beneath.

Unlike Julia Hoffman, he’d surrendered the ghost of his will long ago.  “Your

other sister.”

Roger looked at her blankly.  “I don’t have another sibling, Cassandra.”

This had not been the answer Cassandra wanted.  She concentrated her will upon

him and found only bewilderment.

He waited and before her twisted mind could burrow any further, he asked, “What

made you think I had another sister?”

“Never mind.”

Roger shrugged.  She wasn’t in his head anymore.  Louise, why would Cassandra

be thinking about Louise?

“I’ll find out who she is,” she said half to herself.  “They won’t be able to

keep any secrets from me.” Cassandra unfurrowed her forehead.  “I’ll worry

about that tomorrow evening.” She moved toward Roger, smiling at him now, mouth

wide open and fangs extended.

Somehow each time it actually happened, he found himself wishing that the first

and second parts of the play had lasted longer.

Act III.

* * *

Countin' flowers on the wall / That don't bother me at all / Playin' solitaire till

dawn with a deck of fifty-one / Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo /

Now don't tell me I've nothin' to do

--“Flowers on the Wall” Lyrics by Lew DeWitt (quoted without permission)

* * *

Julia stared at the ceiling.  She wished they would all go away and leave her

alone. There wasn’t anything any of them could do for her.  Did they understand

what she was feeling?  No. And there certainly wasn’t anything any of the

people in her bedroom could do to stop Cassandra and the other things that went

bump in the night.

Under extreme protest, Dr.  Tobias had given her a transfusion.  Not that he

didn’t want her to recover; he just wanted her admitted to the hospital.  She

thought there might have been some arguments for and against this plan; Julia

wasn’t positive about that, she had lost consciousness at least once.

As far as Julia was concerned it was a moot point.  Cassandra had the

determination of a lemming and the cunning of a snake.  No matter where they

brought her, Cassandra would somehow find a point of entry.

“We must find a way to stop her.” Barnabas was grimly determined.

Julia wanted to take heart in that, but her rational side pointed out that he

didn’t have any ideas about how they were to accomplish that feat.

Barnabas didn’t say anything.

He wanted her to come up with a plan, she realized, sinking further under the

blanket of despair that had been weighing her down for so long.

“She’s already moved her coffin.”

Or had someone help her move it.  Roger most likely.  She didn’t quite see

Cassandra getting her pretty white hands dirty.  Julia continued to stare at

the ceiling.

“Julia, if we knew where she was during the day, we could destroy her.”

She finally spoke, “You know I won’t be able to tell you that.” She sat up a

little, just in time to see Quentin slip into the room.

“How’s our other patient doing?” He smiled at Julia.  His careless words had

the unintended effect of distracting Barnabas.

“Is Vicki better?”

Julia fell on her back again.

* * *

If you can't say anything good about someone, sit right here by me.

--Alice Roosevelt Longworth

* * *

Carolyn traced a finger over the image of the gently curving form of her

grandmother. She was finding photographs so much more revealing than drawings

and paintings.  Take this portrait--posed though it was.  Jamison Collins stood

proudly, his hand on the chair where his wife was seated.  In front him was

Elizabeth, still a young girl, but on the cusp of womanhood, a bow in her hair,

but her figure beginning to fill out.  And in front of Carolyn’s grandmother

was toddler, Roger, dressed in a crisp sailor suit, a perfectly respectable

looking photograph of a perfectly respectable family.  Elizabeth was the

embodiment of normalcy.  Except .  .  .  except that Carolyn noticed that Roger

seemed to be squirming to stay as far away from his father as possible and that

his mother smiled almost desperately into the camera, as if daring anyone to

prove her other than happy.

It wasn’t quite as noticeable in this picture, but still Mrs.  Jamison Collins

was very full of face.  In the other photographs, particularly in the one of

her in a clinging dress, it was very apparent that the lady had been enceinte.

Carolyn hadn’t thought anything of it at first.  No doubt she’d miscarried.

How curious though that save for a few isolated snapshots here and there,

Elizabeth wearing her first formal gown, Roger in various stages of school

uniforms and so on, Elizabeth in her wedding dress, the next shots of the

Collins family as a group were almost two decades later.

“How is Julia, Dr.  Tobias?”

Carolyn looked up from the album.  She did not care much what happened to Julia

Hoffman, but the circumstances of the woman’s attack intrigued her.  Violence

of any sort always did.

“Better.  The transfusion is helping.  I wish you would let me move her to the

hospital.  I could monitor her more effectively there.”

Roger glanced up from his paper quickly.

“She was so adamant about staying here,” Elizabeth said apologizing.  “We’ve

been friends for such a long time; I don’t want to go against her wishes.”

Carolyn stifled a yawn and looked back a few pages at a snap of “Lizzie” as the

caption read. Four going on forty, Carolyn decided.  She may have grown older

physically, but other than that there seemed to be little change.  Carolyn did

doubt whether anyone called the mistress of Collinwood, “Lizzie” anymore.

The fat physician had to leave and responsible, dull Elizabeth followed out,

closing the doors behind her.  Carolyn watched them leave dispassionately and

then turned her full attention elsewhere.  “Uncle Roger?”

“Yes, kitten.  What is it?” Had Carolyn been quite herself, she would have

noticed how short of temper he seemed.

Carolyn pouted charmingly.  “These pictures.  There’s something about them that

I don’t understand.” He would sate her curiosity.  Her host had liked this man

and he cared for her too. She didn’t quite understand the appeal, save for his

very white skin.  She *had* considered how delicious a contrast it would make

to see the crimson blood pouring forth covering his fine features.  Elizabeth

would be a boring victim.  Stoic to the end, like those aristocrats who had

rode the tumbrels head held high, until the guillotine remedied such an excess

of pride.  Not that Danielle Roget had cared one fig for politics.  It had

never mattered to her whose side she was on, not as long as she could exercise

her talents.  But this man, this man might be amusing to kill.

He did not respond with quite the alacrity she had expected.  Instead he folded

the paper with a touch of irritation, before rising to peer over her shoulder.

“It’s a picture of Elizabeth.”

“I know that, but .  .  .  “ Carolyn flipped through the pages.  “Why are there

so many gaps between here and,” she paused while she found the spot where the

pictures took up again, “here?” She thought he stiffened ever so minutely.

“I really don’t know, kitten.  Except to say that after Mother died, Father

lost most of his interest in keeping a family record.” He made as if to go back

to his paper.

“Please, Uncle Roger, I’m so bored.  Tell me about these.” She languidly

pointed to the album. “There must be some stories.”

“We were a dull lot, kitten,” said Roger unconvincingly.  “I’ll tell you what

though.” He opened up a cupboard and pulled out a fat morocco bound album.

“Earlier generations weren’t.”

Again, he tried to return to his chair and the news.

Carolyn did not like this at all.

He saw her expression.  “Really, Carolyn, you know the history of our family as

well as I do.”

She smiled at him winsomely.  “I know the official stories,” she corrected.  “I

want to know what really happened.  Professor Stokes only knew some of it.  I’m

sure you know so much more.”

Roger gave up and sat down next to her.  “All right.  I admit defeat.  Show me

someone and I shall impart any worldly knowledge I have.”

Carolyn flicked through the album in search of someone with an interesting

face.

“Hold on.  You’re passing Cousin Ambrose.” Roger turned the pages back to

reveal a sweet faced man in a clerical collar.

“Wasn’t he a missionary?” Carolyn asked bored.  This was not the sort of person

that interested her.

“Not by choice.” Roger gave a short laugh.  “He was quite at home in New

England.  He’s one of the Collinses who settled in Bangor.  His congregation

was devoted to him.”

Carolyn stifled a yawn.  “Then why did he leave?”

“Cousin Ambrose ‘got the call,’” Roger wryly told her, “after it was discovered

he’d been embezzling from church funds.  His new vocation was suggested to him

as a way to avoid the scandal.”

That was better, but still too tame for her taste.  “How did he die?”

“Oh, one of those ghastly tropical fevers, I think.” He turned the pages,

stopping at a daguerreotype.  “You wouldn’t know it from this, but Lavinia

Collins was quite a beauty.”

Carolyn peered at the image.  “I’ve seen her before.  There’s a picture of her

upstairs isn’t there?”

Roger nodded.  “I forget how she’s related to us; there were a great many

miscellaneous kinfolk running around at various points in our lineage.”

“I don’t remember hearing about her.”

He shrugged.  “Oh, they lived on the largesse of Edith Collins for a few years

before leaving for Boston, or was it New York?  In any case, Lavinia was

renowned for her love and devotion to her husband.  If you’ll look at the

gentleman, perhaps you can tell me why.  I’ve never been able to fathom it.”

Carolyn giggled.  “I can’t either.”

“Lavinia was a favorite with the household staff as well.  Men and women

alike.”

“Oh?” She waited.  Roger looked vastly amused.  This might be good.

“Yes, she prided herself on getting to know as many of them as possible.  Shall

we say in the Biblical sense?”

Carolyn outright laughed.  “No!”

“So the story goes, in any case.  I do believe the husband died ignorant of his

wife’s true nature and she ended up running off with a groom or a butler or

something.  Next victim?”

Carolyn thumbed through the pages randomly.  “Wait a second.”

“What’s that, kitten?” Roger’s attention wavered.

“These pages, they’re stuck together.”

Roger rose and found a letter opener.  “Can you pry them apart with this?”

Carolyn could and did.  She opened the stuck pages, revealing a photograph of a

woman. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

“I haven’t either.  I wonder who she is.  Perhaps there’s a name on the back of

the--” Roger stood up abruptly.  His face was pinched.

“Is something wrong?”

“Excuse me, kitten.  There is something I have to do.” He hurried out of the

room.

Carolyn stared after him annoyed.  She had counted on him alleviating her

boredom and he had been off to a good start.  She could call Professor Stokes,

she thought, but there was an insouciance about Roger that the professor

lacked.  Disappointed, her eyes fell back to the portrait.  The woman was

striking with large eyes and what looked like dark or perhaps it was red hair.

The mouth was sensual too, but it was the eyes that struck Carolyn’s fancy.

There was a manic quality to them.  She turned over the photograph.  In faded

sepia ink, she could barely make out a name.  She was holding it up to the

light for a better look when Quentin came in.

Carolyn was surprised and then amused at his ashen face.  Perhaps the afternoon

wasn’t going to be so dull after out.

* * *

Look when I came here, my eyes were big blue question marks.  Now they're big

green dollar marks.

--Clarissa Saunders " Mr.  Smith Goes to Washington"

* * *

Maggie picked up a vase that a month ago at which she would scarcely have dared

look. Now it hung carelessly from her lacquered fingers.

An anxious Arabella Magruder swooped down on her.  "How lovely to see you,

Maggie. Whatever brings you to our little shop?" The girl probably wanted a

job; no doubt Mr. Blair had thrown her over.  She prepared her little speech of

polite regrets even as she deftly plucked the piece of Tiffany out of the Evans

girl's hands.

Maggie's eyes narrowed.  Whatever brought her here?  She heard the steel

underneath the Cotton Candy voice.  As if she didn't have a perfect right to be

here.  "I'd like to look at that." She didn't add a please.

Miss Magruder dropped her saintly genteel maiden lady persona.  It was so

trying when the locals forgot their place.  "It's very expensive."

The voices of the other customers dropped to a gentle hum.  No one said

anything (that would come later), but they all drank in the details of the new

and questionably improved Maggie Evans.

Her twin sister wafted over.  Neither of them were fools.  One didn't stay long

in the antiques' business without perceptiveness and a nose for danger.

Sophronia eyed Maggie expertly.  "I'm sure Miss Evans knows that."

Arabella's rosebud mouth puckered slightly, but she gave it back to Maggie.

Maggie knew enough about antiques to know this was genuine LCT.  No knockoff

here. The workmanship was exquisite.  Sinuous lilies twined their way up the

sides of the vase. She drummed her sharpened fingernails against the delicate

glass, watching both of them.  There was a time when she had been respectful

toward the Magruder sisters.  Last of their kind, Pop always said.  Real

ladies, right down to the core.

Maggie suddenly thought about Victoria Winters.  Another genuine article.

**Real ladies ought to know when it was time to leave the party.**

"I'll take it." She caught the exchange of glances.

**Real ladies shouldn't be so damned rude.**

Up until recently, if asked, both sisters would have described Maggie as a

"Nice Girl." So unfortunate that her father (here their voices would have

dropped to a whisper) *drank*, but it wasn't really Maggie's fault.  Bright,

reliable, capable Maggie.  Not someone they wanted in their shop.  Not someone

they wanted to socialize with.  But they made sure to tip her a little

something extra when she waited on them and offered her a smile when they met

her on the street.

Then Maggie had taken up with flashy Nicholas Blair.

**Real ladies shouldn't keep her waiting.**

Sophronia Magruder named a price that actually was much lower than what they

normally would have asked.  The sisters were on occasion forced to go into less

than salubrious locations in search of fresh stock; they knew trouble when she

saw it.  Give them what they want and hope they go away.

To their surprise, Maggie dropped bill after crisp bill on the glass-topped

case.

"I'll wrap it for you."

"That won't be necessary." Maggie sent the vase crashing to the floor, shards

of Art Glass flying everywhere.

Silence fell on the shop with the same impact the vase had.

Maggie dropped another large bill on the case.  Her mouth twisted like a

crimson gash in a parody of a smile.  "Bye now." She turned, her heels

crunching against the bits of glass as she left.

**Real ladies should learn to treat her better.**

* * *

I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, briefed, debriefed, or numbered.  My life

is my own.

--The Prisoner

* * *

Only three or four hours till sundown, Julia didn't like to think about that.

Her life had been non-stop misery and horror for awhile now.  She was getting

used to it; she didn't like to think of that either.  All the blood

transfusions were going to do was prolong the torture.

At least, they'd left her alone for a little while, but not without setting a

guard outside her door and decking the place out like the saleroom of a

religious supply store.  They'd been startled when she pointed out that they'd

have to do something about all the crosses when Dr.  Tobias came back.  A

non-practicing Jew, Julia idly wondered whether the artifacts of Christianity

would have much affect on her when she was one of the Undead.

Cassandra was going to get past all this.  As that rather depressing fact

popped into her head, a panel of the wall slid open.  Roger had a finger to his

lips.  He didn't look happy about it, but he silently approached the bed and

helped Julia undo the IV.

Now would be an ideal time for Barnabas to show up, Julia thought.  Or Quentin.

 At this point, she wasn't going to be picky.

But no one came and Julia soon found herself in another part of the East Wing.

She took in the details Cassandra's new hiding place and reluctantly had to

admit it was a good one. Anyone seeking to discover it was going to have to do

a lot of knocking on walls to find this particular hidey-hole.  From the looks

of the filth-encrusted bottles in the corner, smuggling went back centuries as

a profitable sideline in the Collins family tree.

Roger broke the silence "You'd better rest." He dusted off a chair for her.  "I

am sorry about this."

Victim looked at victim.

"It's not your fault," Julia told him in a dead voice.  "Are you all right?"

"Oh, reasonably so," he said in a tone belying his words.  "Do you want a

drink?  Those," he gestured to the bottles, "hold Napoleon brandy and you look

like you could use it."

Julia shook her head.  "No thanks.  Don't let me stop you." To her surprise,

Roger stayed where he was.

The corners of Roger's mouth twisted wryly.  "I'm on the wagon." He gave a nod

to the pink coffin.  "My devoted 'wife' finds my blood so much more appetizing

when it's devoid of alcohol."

"Has .  .  .  has the withdrawal been very bad?" Julia couldn't even begin to

imagine what *that* had been like.  The kindest expression for Roger's drinking

was "incipient alcoholism", and in Julia's estimation, incipient had come and

gone a long time ago.

The mask dropped from Roger's face, desperation and bitterness stretched across

his bones like a canvas on a too taut frame.

She reached out a tentative hand.  "Now it's my turn to say it.  I'm sorry."

Roger's smile was bleak, but he threw the walls back up.  "Ah, but Julia,

you're forgetting, I've had dear, sweet Cassandra's will to help me stay the

course.  As she reminds me so often, her will is my will."

There didn't seem to be much Julia could say to that.

"You've had it worse than I," Roger remarked finally.  "She merely despises me.

I'm a convenient pawn.  She hates you."

There was a matter-of-factness about their conversation that was oddly

comforting.  It was cold in the room and Julia shivered a little.  "Cassandra

might make an interesting clinical study."

Roger rose and gave her his jacket.  "With all due respect, Julia, I don't

think she's all that complicated."

Everyone was a doctor, Julia thought.  "And what is your diagnoses?"

With half an eye on the brandy, Roger offered her his theory.  "Cassandra wants

to be a lady.  That and for some unfathomable reason, she wants Barnabas to

love her.  She's been very clear about both points.  She has no scruples about

how she attains those very unattainable goals."

Simplistic, but not inaccurate.  "How do you mean unattainable?"

Roger raised his eyebrows.  "Why Julia, you surprise me.  I took it on faith

that you knew damn well you cannot force someone to love you."

More sarcastically than she had intended, perhaps to cover the flood of

feelings his statement had raised--between her experiences with Tom and then

with Barnabas, she did know that little fact, she snapped, "I meant about her

becoming a lady."

"One is either a lady or one isn't."

Julia crossed her arms.  Her blood was far from blue.  "You have to be born to

it; is that what you're saying?"

He suddenly thought of Louise, perhaps because Cassandra had asked about her--a

ray of sunshine in this gloomy house.  Full of fun and life, but not a lady.  A

Kewpie doll, perhaps, but not a lady.  "No, I wouldn't say that.  It's a

quality that cannot be acquired.  One has it or one doesn't. You have it."

Elizabeth had it.  Roger could think of plenty of women in the family history

that were most definitely ladies.  Some of them damned unpleasant people, but

ladies, nonetheless.  Then there were the others.  The ones none of the family

liked to talk about.  The ones that had so intrigued Carolyn.

Julia blinked.  She'd never spent this much time in conversation with Roger

since she'd come to Collinwood.  "Thank you."

He continued, largely because it took his mind off the soothing elixir the

bottles contained.  "All the best in off-the-rack Mary Quant isn't going to do

the trick.  Things like this," he pointed toward the coffin, "amuse me no end.

She picked that monstrosity out herself, you know and she's extremely proud of

her good taste." He rolled his eyes.

Julia laughed.  "I never did hear the whole story on how that got here." He

lowered his voice conspiratorially, "Oh, it's quite a tale.  She had bitten

Liz."

Julia stared at him.  "She's--"

Roger shook his head.  "No, no.  I'm not certain how, but someone or something

freed Liz, thus forcing Cassandra to go closer to home for her meals.  In any

case, at some point, Liz was under her control and Cassandra dragged her off to

the funeral home to pick out a suitable coffin.  In a showroom full of

unobjectionable caskets, darling Cassandra fixed her sights on this mod

horror." He broke off and turned his chair away from view of the cognac.  "From

what I recall of local gossip, it owes its presence in our very staid little

town to an error on the part of the director in ordering.  It had been

gathering dust there for months."

"I'm trying to picture Elizabeth moving a pink coffin from the funeral home to

Collinwood," Julia said, interested in spite of herself.

Roger's smile grew strained.  "Cassandra was quite gleeful about that part of

the story. She made Liz do most of the labor all alone."

Julia's good mood deflated.  "There's nothing we can do to stop her."

"Why do you say that?"

"Roger, at one point or another, Cassandra's hurt nearly every one of the

people in this house. We've tried to destroy her, but she just keeps coming

back.  She's literally sucking the life out of both of us.  It's not going to

be much longer for me.  Maybe you have some time, but sooner or later .  .  .

"

"She's clinically insane," he said bluntly.  "You're the psychiatrist.  Would

you agree with that?"

"Well, yes, but--"

Roger was direct.  "I'm a survivor, Julia.  Cassandra wavers from envying the

Collins' wealth and privilege and thinking that it's made all of us soft.

Despite what she seems to think, I didn't have an easy childhood or

adolescence.  My adult years haven't been exactly idyllic.  Tell me, has your

life been unadulterated pleasure?"

"Of course not!"

"We've both faced our share of personal demons.  I recognize that in you.

Perhaps not the same ones, but we've bested them.  'Bloody, but not unbowed.'

Now we're facing the real demons.  I have no intention of lying down like a

dead thing at Cassandra's feet.  If you want to do that, it is, of course,

entirely your prerogative, but I am going to find some way out of this

nightmare, with you or without you."

Some people needed a crisis to bring out their strengths.  Julia realized

somewhat belatedly that Roger was one of those people.  "What did you have in

mind?"

"I don't have a plan to destroy her.  Even if I did .  .  .  we need to

survive.  Any way we can."

The cool, detached Julia nodded approval.  Remember how you got to be Dr.

Julia Hoffman.  He's right.  Listen to him.  The ravaged Julia hesitated.

"I've got it easier," Roger admitted.  "She doesn't bother much with me.  She's

decided I'm a convenient and rather stupid stooge.  I can stay under her radar.

And she requires me for her immediate purposes, at least so long as she can

become mistress of Collinwood and feed on the country club set.  Cassandra's

playing mind games with you; she brags about it incessantly.  I would suggest

you somehow let her think she's winning and set your psychiatric training to

good use. She's cunning, but she thrives on predictability."

Julia took a deep breath.  "All right."

They continued talking .  .  .

* * *

If you'd have been there If you'd have seen it I betcha you would have done the

same!

--Cell Block Tango, "Chicago" Lyrics by Fred Ebb (quoted without permission)

* * *

Cassandra arose to find her fop of a husband and her hag of a rival waiting for

her.  She smiled at them brightly and laughed.  "Barnabas must be beside

himself with worry."

Find an inner place and hide.  Predictable.  She's predictable.  Remember that.

Roger's words echoed deep within Julia.  Odd how such a messed up human being

like Roger was better at this than she was.  She had the MD.  He had .  .  .

what did Roger have in his past that he had gotten to be expert at this?  Julia

shrugged it off.  Play the game.  What did Cassandra want to see? She glared at

Cassandra defiantly.  "You won't get away with this."

Bingo.

"Ah, but I already have, doctor.  I already have.  He won't find you here." The

blue eyes grew luminous.  "Barnabas is going to pay for treating me like this.

They're all going to pay!"

Act I.  Overtures and Beginners, please.

 TO BE CONTINUED ...