Andre Norton - Ralestone Luck

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THE RALESTONES COME HOME

Once upon a time two brave princes and a beautiful prin-

cess set out to make their fortunes—" began the dark-

haired, dark-eyed boy by the convertible.

"Royalty is out of fashion," corrected Ricky Ralestone

somewhat indifferently. "Can't you do better than that?"

She gave her small, pert hat an exasperated tweak which

brought the unoffending bowl-shaped bit of white felt into

its proper position over her right eyebrow. "How long

does it take Rupert to ask a single simple question?"

Her brother Val watched the gas gage on the instrument

board of the convertible fluctuate wildly as the attendant of

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the station shook the hose to speed the flow of the last few

drops. Five gallons—did he have enough to pay for it? He

began to assemble various small hoards of change from

different pockets.

"Do you think we're going to like this?" Ricky waved

her hand vaguely in a gesture which included a dilapidated

hot-dog stand and a stretch of road white-hot under the

steady baking of the sun.

"Well, I think that Pirate's Haven is slightly different

from our present surroundings. Where's your proper pride?

Not everyone can be classed among the New Poor," Val

observed judiciously.

"Nobility in the bread line." His sister sniffed with

what she fondly believed was the air of a Van Astor

dowager.

"Nobility?"

"We never relinquished the title, did we? Rupert's still

the Marquess of Lome."

"After some two hundred years in America I am afraid

that we would find ourselves strangers in England. And

Lome crumbled to dust long ago."

"But he's still Marquess of Lome," she persisted.

"All right. And what does that make you?"

"Lady Richanda, of course, silly. Can't you remember

the wording of the old charter? And you're Viscount—"

"Wrong there," Val corrected her. "I'm only a lord, by

courtesy, unless we can bash Rupert on the head some

dark night and chuck him into the bayou."

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"Lord Valerius." She rolled it upon her tongue.

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RALESTONELUCK

"Marquess, Lady, and Lord Val, out to seek their fortunes.

Pity we can't do it in the traditional family way."

"But we can't, you know," he protested laughingly. "I

believe that piracy is no longer looked upon with favor by

the more solid members of any community. Though plank-

walking is an idea to keep in mind when the bill collectors

start to draw in upon us."

"Here comes Rupert at last. Rupert," she raised her

voice as their eider brother opened the door by the driver's

seat, "shall we all go and be pirates? Val has some lovely

gory ideas."

"Not just yet anyway—we still have a roof over our

heads," he answered as he slid in behind the wheel. "We

should have taken the right turn a mile back."

"Bother!" Ricky surveyed as much of her face as she

could see in the postage-stamp mirror of her compact. "I

don't think I'm going to like Louisiana."

"Maybe Louisiana won't care for you either," Val

offered slyly. "After all, we dyed-in-the-wool Yanks com-

ing to live in the deep South—"

"Speak for yourself, Val Ralestone." She applied a

puff carefully to the tip of her upturned nose. "Since

we've got this barn of a place on our hands, we might as

well live in it. Too bad you couldn't have persuaded our

artist tenant to sign another lease, Rupert."

"He's gone to spend a year in Italy. The place is in

fairly good condition though. LeFleur said that as long as

we don't use the left wing and close off the state bedrooms,

we can manage nicely."

"State bedrooms—" Val drew a deep breath which was

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meant to be one of reverence but which turned into a

sneeze as the convertible's wheels raised the dust. "How

does it feel to own such magnificence, Rupert?"

"Not so good," he replied honestly. "A house as big as

Pirate's Haven is a burden if you don't have the cash to

keep it up properly. Though this artist chap did make a lot

of improvements on his own."

"But mink of the Long Hall—" began Ricky, rolling

her eyes heavenward.

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"And just what do you know about the Long Hall?"

demanded Rupert.

"Why, that's where dear Great-great-uncle Rick's ghost

is supposed to walk, isn't it?" she asked innocently. "1

hope that our late tenant didn't scare him away. It gives

one such a blue-blooded feeling to think of having an

active ghost on the premises. A member of one's own

family, too!"

"Sure. Teach him—or it—some parlor tricks and we'll

show it—or him—off every afternoon between three and

four. We might even be able to charge admission and

recoup the family fortune," Val suggested brightly.

"Have you no reverence?" demanded his sister. "And

besides, ghosts only walk at night."

"Now that's something we'll have to investigate," Val

interrupted her. "Do ghosts have union rules? I mean, I

wouldn't want Great-great-uncle Rick to march up and

down the carriage drive with a sign reading, "The Ralestones

are unfair to ghosts,' or anything like that."

"We'll have to use the Long Hall, of course," cut in

Rupert, as usual ignoring their nonsense. "And the old

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RALESTONE LUCK

summer drawing-room. But we can shut up the dining-

room and the ball-room. We'll eat in the kitchen, and that

and a bedroom apiece—"

"I suppose there are bathrooms, or at least a bathroom,"

his brother interrupted. "Because I don't care to rush

down to the bayou for a good brisk plunge every time I get

my face dirty."

"Harrison put in a bathroom at his own expense last

falL"

"For which blessed be die name of Harrison. If he

hadn't gone to Italy, he would have rebuilt the house. How

soon do we get there? This touring is not what I nought it

might be—"

The crease which had appeared so recently between

Rupert's eyes deepened.

"Let hurt, Val?" he asked quietly, glancing at the slim

figure sharing his seat.

"No. I'm expressing curiosity this time, old man, not

just a whine. But if we're going to be this far off the main

highway—"

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"Oh, it's not far from the city road. We ought to be

seing the gate-posts any moment now."

"Prophet!" Ricky leaned forward between them. "See

there!"

Two gray stone posts, as firmly planted by time as the

avenue of live-oaks they headed, showed clearly in the

afternoon light. And from the nearest, deep carven in the

stone, a jagged-toothed skull, crowned and grinning, stared

blankly at the three in the shabby car. Beneath it ran the

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insolent motto of an ancient and disreputable clan, "What

I want—I take!"

"This is the place all right—1 recognize Joe there/' Val

pointed to the crest. "Good old Joe, always laughing."

Ricky made a face. "Horrid old thing. I don't see why

we couldn't have had a swan or something nice to swank

about."

"But then the Lords of Lome were hardly a nice lot in

their prime," Val reminded her. "Well, Rupert, let's see

the rest."

The car followed a graveled drive between tall bushes

which would have been the better for a pruning. Then the

road made a sudden curve and they came out upon a

crescent of lawn bordering upon a stone-paved terrace

three steps above. And on the terrace stood the home a

Ralestone had not set foot in for over fifty years—Pirate's

Haven.

"It looks—" Ricky stared up, "why, it looks just like

the picture Mr. Hamson painted!"

"Which proves why he is now in Italy," Val returned.

"But he did capture it on canvas."

"Gray stone—and those diamond-paned windows—and

that squatty tower. But it isn't like a Southern home at all!

It's some old, old place out of England."

"Because it was built by an exile," said Rupert softly.

"An exile who loved his home so well that he labored five

years in the wilderness to build its duplicate. Those little

diamond-paned windows were once protected with shutters

an inch thick, and the place was a fort in Indian times. But

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RALESTONE LUCK

it is strange to this country. That's why it's one of the

show places. LeFleur asked me if we would be willing to

keep up the custom of throwing the state rooms open to the

public one day a month."

"And shall we?" asked Ricky.

"We'll see. Well, don't you want to see the inside as

well as the out?"

"Of course! Val, you lazy thing, get out!"

"Certainly, m'lady." He swung open the door and

climbed out stiffly. Although he wouldn't have confessed

it for any reason, his leg had been aching dully for hours.

"Do you know," Ricky hesitated on the first terrace

step, bending down to put aside a trail of morning-glory

vine which clutched at her ankle, "I've just remembered!"

"What?" Rupert looked up from the grid where he was

unstrapping their luggage.

"That We are the very first Ralestones to—to come

home since Grandfather Miles rode away in 1867."

"And why the sudden dip into ancient history?" Val

inquired as he limped around to help Rupert.

"I don't know," her eyes were fast upon moss-greened

wall and ponderous door hewn of a single slab of oak,

"except—well, we are coming home at last I wonder

if—if they know. All those others. Rick and Miles, the

first Rupert and Richard and—"

"That spitfire, the Lady Richanda?" Rupert smiled.

"Perhaps they do. No. leave the bags here, Val. Let's see

the house first."

Together the Ralestones crossed the terrace and came to

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Andre Norton

stand by the front door which still bore faint scars left by

Indian hatchets. But Rupert stooped to insert a very mod-

em key into a very modern lock. There was a click and the

door swung inward before his push.

"The Long Hall!" They stood in something of a hesi-

tant huddle at the end of a long stone-floored room. Half-

way down its length a wooden staircase led up to the

second floor, and directly opposite that a great fireplace

yawned mightily, black and bare.

A leather-covered lounge was directly before mis, flanked

by two square chairs. And by me stairs was an oaken

marriage chest. Save for two skin rugs, these were all the

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furnishings.

But Ricky had crossed hesitatingly to that cavernous

fireplace and was standing mere looking up as her brothers

joined her.

"There's where it was,'' she said softly and pointed to a

deep niche cut into the surface of the stone overmantel.

That niche was empty and had been so for more than a

hundred years—to their hurt. "That was where the Luck—"

"How hold ye Lome?" Rupert's softly spoken question

brought the well-remembered answer to Val's lips:

"By the oak leaf, by me sea wave, by the broad-sword

blade, thus hold we Lome!"

"The oak leaf is dust," murmured Ricky, "the sea

wave is gone, the broadsword is rust, how now hold ye

Lome?"

Her brothers answered her together:

"By our Luck, thus hold we Lomel"

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RALESTONE LUCK

"And we've got to get it back," she said. "We've just

got to! When the Luck hangs there again, we—"

"Won't have anything left to worry about," Val fin-

ished for her. "But that's a very big order, m'lady. Short

of catching Rick's ghost and forcing him to disclose the

place where he hid it, I don't see how we're going to do

it."

"But we are going to," she answered confidently. "I

know we are!"

"A good thing," Rupert broke in, a hint of soberness

beneath the lightness of his tone as he looked about the

almost bare room and then at the strained pallor of Val's

thin face. "The Ralestones have been luckless too long.

And now suppose we take possession of this commodious

mansion. I suggest that we get settled as soon as possible.

I don't like the looks of the western sky. We're probably

going to have a storm."

"What about the car?" Val asked as his brother turned

to go.

"Harrison used the old carriage house as a garage. I'll

run it in there. You and Ricky better do a spot of exploring

and see about beds and rood. I don't know how you feel,"

he went on grimly, "but after last night I want something

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softer than a dozen rocks to steep on."

"I told you not to stop at that tourist place," began

Ricky smugly. "I said—"

"You said that a house painted that shade of green made

you slightly ill. But you didn't say anything about beds,"

Val reminded her as he shed his coat and hung it on the

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Andre Norton

newel-post. "And since the Ralestone family have defi-

nitely gone off the gold or any other monetary standard,

it's tourist rests or the poorhouse for us."

"Probably the poorhouse." Rupert sounded resigned.

"Now upstairs with you and get out some bedding. LeHeur

said in his letter that the place was all ready for occupancy.

And he stocked up with canned stuff."

"I know—beans! Just too, too divine. Well, let's know

the worst." Ricky started up the stairs. "I suppose there

are electric lights?"

"Got to throw the main switch first, and I haven't time

to do that now. Here, Val." Rupert tossed him his tiny

pocket torch as he turned to go. The door closed behind

him and Ricky looked over her shoulder.

"This—this is rather a darkish place, isn't it?"

"Not so bad." Val considered the hall below, which

seemed suddenly peopled by an Overabundance of oddly

shaped shadows.

"No," her voice grew stronger, "not so bad. We're

together anyway, Val. Last year 1 thought I'd die, shut up

in that awful school, and then coming home to hear—"

"About me making my first and last flight. Yes, not

exactly a rest cure for any of us, was it? But it's all over

now. The Ralestones may be down but they're not out,

yet, in spite of Mosile Oil and those coal-mines. D'you

know, we might use some of that nice gilt-edged stock for

wall-paper. There's enough to cover a closet at least. Here

we arc, Rupert from beating about the globe trying to be a

newspaper man, you straight from N'York's finest finishing-

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RALESTONE LUCK

school, and me—well, out of the plainest hospital bed I

ever saw. We've got this house and what Rupert managed

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to clear from the wreck. Something will turn up. In the

meantime—"

"Yes?" she prompted.

"In the meantime," he went on, leaning against the

banister for a moment's rest, "we can be looking for the

Luck. As Rupert says, we need it badly enough. Here's

the upper hall. Which way now?"

"Over to the left wing. These in front are what Rupert

refers to as 'state bedrooms.' "

"Yes?" He opened the nearest door and whistled softly.

"Not so bad. About the size of a small union station and

provided with all the comforts of a tomb. Decidedly not

what we want."

"Wait, here's a plaque set in the wall. Look!" She ran

her finger over a glass-covered square.

"Regulations for guests, or a floor plan to show how to

reach the dining-room in the quickest way," her brother

suggested.

"No." She read aloud slowly:

" 'THIS ROOM WAS OCCUPIED BY GENERAL

ANDREW JACKSON,

THE VICTOR OF THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS,

UPON THE TENTH DAY AFTER THE BATTLE. ' "

"Whew! 'Old Hickory' here! But I thought that the

Ralestones were more or less under a cloud at that time,"

commented Val.

AndrS Norton

"History—"

"In the making. Quite so. Now may I suggest that we

find some slumber rooms slightly more modem? Rupert is

apt to become annoyed at undue delay in such matters."

They went down the hall and turned into a short cross

corridor. From a round window at the far end a ray of sun

still swept in, but it was a sickly, faded ray. The storm

Rupert had spoken of could not be far off.

"This is the right way. Mr. Harrison had these little

numbers put on the doors for his guests," Ricky pointed

out. "I'll take 'three'; that was marked on the plan he sent

us as a lady's room. You take that one across the hall and

let Rupert have the one next to you."

The rooms they explored were not as imposing as the

one which had sheltered Andrew Jackson for a night.

Furnished with chintz-covered chairs, solid mahogany bed-

steads and highboys, they were pleasant enough even if

they weren't chambers to make an antique dealer "Oh!"

and "Ah!" Val discovered with approval some stiff prints

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of mathematically correct clippers hung an exact patterns

on his walls, while Ricky's room held one treasure, a

dainty dressing-table.

A small door near the end of the hall gave upon a linen

closet. And Ricky, throwing her short white jacket and hat

upon the chair in her room, set about making beds, having

given Val strict orders to return to the lower hall and sort

out the luggage before bringing it up.

As he reached the wide landing he stopped a moment.

Since that winter night, almost a year in the past, when a

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passenger plane had decided—in spite of its pilot—to make

a landing on a mountainside, he had learned to hobble

where he had once run. The accident having made his right

leg a rather accurate barometer, that crooked bone was

announcing the arrival of the coming storm with a sharp

pain or two which shot unexpectedly from knee to ankle.

One such caught him as he was about to take a step and

threw him suddenly off balance.

He clutched at a dim tapestry which hung across the

wall and tumbled through a slit in die fabric—which swelled

of dust and moth balls—into a tiny alcove flanking a

broad, well-cushioned window-seat under tall windows. Be-

low him in a riot of bushes and hedges run wild, lay the

garden. Somewhere beyond must lie Bayou Mercier lead-

ing directly to Lake Borgne and so to the sea, the thorough-

fare used by their pirate ancestors when they brought home

their spoil.

The green of the rank growth below, thought Val, seemed

intensified by the strange yellowish light. A moss-grown

path led straight into the heart of a jungle where sweet

olive, banana trees, and palms grew in a matted mass.

Harrison might have done wonders for the house but he

had allowed the garden to lapse into a wilderness.

"Val!"

"Coming!" he shouted and pushed back through the

curtain. He could hear Rupert moving about the lower

hall.

"Just made it in time," he said as the younger Ralestone

limped down to join him. "Hear that?"

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Andre Norton

A steady pattering outside was growing into a wild dash

of wind-driven rain. It was dark and Rupert himself was

but a blur moving across the hall.

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"Do you still have the flash? Might as well descend into

the lower regions and put on the lights."

They crossed the Long Hall, passing through another

large chamber where furniture huddled under dust covers,

and then into a small cupboard-lined passage. This gave

upon a dark cavern where Val's hand scraped a table top

only too painfully as he went. Then Rupert found the door

leading to the cellar, and they went down and down into

inky blackness upon which their thread of torchlight made

little impression.

The damp, unpleasant scent of mold and wet grew

stronger as they descended, and their fingers brushed slime-

touched walls.

"Phew! Not very comfy down here," Val protested as

Rupert threw the torch beam along the nearest wall. With a

grunt of relief he stepped forward to pull open the door of

a small black box. "That does it," he said as he threw the

switch. "Now for the topside again and some supper."

They negotiated the steps and found the button which

controlled the kitchen lights. The glare showed them a

room on the mammoth scale suggested by the Long Hall.

A giant fireplace still equipped with three-legged pots,

toasting irons, and spits was at one side, its brick oven

beside it. But a very modem range and sink faced it.

In the center of the room was a large table, while along

the far wall were closed cupboards. Save for its size and

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the novelty of the fireplace, it was an ordinary kitchen,

complete to red-checked curtains at the windows. Pleasant

and homey, Val thought rather wistfully. But that was

before the coming of that night when Ricky walked in the

garden and he heard something stir in the Long Hall—

which should have been empty—

"Val! Rupert!" A cry which started valiantly became a

wail as it echoed through empty rooms. "Where are

yo-o-ou!"

"Here, in the kitchen," Val shouted back.

A moment later Ricky stood in the doorway, her face

flushed and her usually correct curls all on end.

"Mean, selfish, utterly selfish pigs!" she burst out.

"Leaving me all alone in the dark! And it's so dark!"

"We just went down to turn on the lights!" Val began.

"So I see." With a sniff she looked about her. "It took

two of you to do that. But it only required one of me to

make three beds. Well, this is a warning to me. Next

time—" shydid not finish her threat. "I suppose you want

some supper?"

Rupert was already at the cupboards. "That,'' he agreed,

"is the general idea."

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