Episode 35: What to Do With Two Needy Men and a Mansion for Sale

Chapter 68

Phillip described how the Thoroughgoods had returned Henri to Fellcrest without explanation just two weeks earlier. He also explained why he hoped to keep the little fellow this time rather than turn him over to an orphanage or seek another home. He did not trust anyone now with the child, he said, after the callous nurse he had first hired and then the mysterious events at the Thoroughgood home. But he needed a mother for the boy—he should have a family.

            “So,” Agnes summed up, leading Henri to the Christmas tree and handing him a strand of tinsel, “it’s the both of you or nothing, is that what you’re offering?”

            “I thought about letting you, if you insisted, take just Henri and leave me to my fate, but then I came to my senses.”

            “And how did you find me?”

            “I had help. When they brought Henri back to my father, he not only brought him to me directly but, unknown to me, he penned a letter to your Aunt Vera. He had been furious with me for a year, you know, for hiding on the farm. But when Henri reappeared, my father took it into his hands to make one last try for us. Your aunt sent back a short note that, well . . . .”  Phillip looked for a word. “Encouraged me.”

            “Vera did that?”

            “Thank God for those older and wiser than we, eh?”

            Phillip reached a hand into his pocket, forgetting for a moment that he had already given the box he brought to Agnes. “The little box —“

            In her jubilation at seeing Henri, Agnes had let the box roll from her lap. Phillip scanned the dark carpet lit only by the fire, now burning low. Finally he spied the black velvet box just inches from the grate and snatched it up. With an uncertain smile, he opened it toward Agnes.

            Phillip felt a tug on his trouser leg and looked down to see Henri raising both arms imploringly. Phillip handed the box to Agnes and picked up the child, who leaned against his shoulder and rubbed his little fists into sleepy eyes.

            “I know, old fellow, it’s past time for bed.” And turning his eyes to the woman before him, standing so close that they nearly touched, he asked, “So here we are, two men wretchedly in need of you. What do you say, Agnes Eileen Somerset?”

            “I wonder,” Agnes nearly whispered, looking from the ring to Phillip, “if I should feel manipulated.”

            “Oh, I would,” Phillip whispered back.

            The tiny flames that clung, wavering, to the spent logs cast only a dull glow upon their faces. Henri began humming lazily into Phillip’s shoulder, signaling that sleep was near.

            Agnes took Phillip’s free hand and pressed the velvet box back into it. She watched his features freeze.

            Then she stretched out her left hand and lifted her finger.

            That Christmas, for the rest of their lives, stood as the greatest of all—at once the darkest and most radiant, the thriftiest and most lavish, a time both impossible and perfectly inevitable. And the miracle of that night in Vera’s parlor seemed to the participants hardly less astounding than the one so many centuries before that brought the whole world to its feet. One could say that Phillip and Agnes themselves never stopped celebrating, and all who were fortunate enough to know them in the many years to come were undeniably the richer for it.

Epilogue

Agnes and Phillip married quietly less than two months into the new year. They installed themselves, along with little Henri, at Phillip’s farmhouse. In the spring they expanded the old homestead to accommodate a guest or two as well as Fettles, Ned, and Marie, who had in the meantime been making themselves useful at the Duke’s home.  Phillip enthusiastically tended the small farm with the help of Ned and Richmond, and everyone became so absorbed in their new duties that they found themselves thinking back less and less upon the lives they left behind. For Empress and Napoleon the move to the country was perhaps one too many, and whether out of confusion or pique, they showed little enthusiasm for the great outdoors and spent most of their time patrolling the house or dozing on the front porch.

            Vera and Frederick made regular visits to the farm. Two years into Agnes and Phillip’s married life, these two arrived one sparkling autumn afternoon—as usual, a day earlier than expected. As they approached the house arm in arm, they delighted again in the country air and broad sunshine. At a wooden table beneath one of the maples, the delighted company sat down to tea (hastily prepared by Fettles with the enthusiastic help of Henri, who assumed his habitual duty of urging more butter onto the bread). Vera caught herself almost forgetting to give Agnes a letter sent to them by Mrs. Bairnaught, who lacked Agnes’s address, and had asked the Schmidts to forward it. Rummaging in her purse, Vera at last produced the letter, which Agnes opened and read aloud.

                                                   October 5, 188_

      Dearest Agnes,

      I felt I should write to tell you that Mr. Bairnaught left us last month, on the 3^rd day of September. I have not found the strength to write to you until now. I am sure that I do not need to describe my feelings at this time, plunged into the void that his absence has created. The silence is almost unbearable, but I read my scriptures, and somehow time passes.

      You may have heard by now the news of your old home. In case it has not yet traveled to you, I will share it. Shortly before my dear husband’s passing, Mrs. Thorne had fallen under suspicion of foul play. It was widely rumored that she had conspired with several others in high places to maneuver her current lover into the office of senator in Washington. Two weeks ago she was placed under house arrest at her cousin’s, where she was staying, on charges of tampering with the election (in which our dear friend Mr. McMeed was defeated—or was he?). This new trouble, coupled with the dwindling of her fortunes since acquiring Brookside, has apparently forced her to offer the estate for sale.

      It would be a great delight to me if you would chose to return and resume your place at your family home. With this wish in my heart, and with the considerable means left me by my husband, and lacking any children to bestow them upon, I would like nothing more than to purchase the estate and will it to you. My assets will also become yours, by immediate transfer, if you are inclined to accept my offer. The only condition is that you allow me, a very old and confused woman, to live among your precious family in that great house until the end of my days, which I sense may not be far off.

      I await only a word from you and Phillip to put my solicitor to work.

      God bless you all.  I remain, in anxious anticipation of your response,

        Beatrice Bairnaught

            No one knew about Claudia. Vera and Frederick had only returned from London a week earlier and had not yet caught up on news. And they had not spoken with Mrs. Bairnaught in months, having been abroad at the time of her husband’s funeral.

            Discussion of Claudia’s fate and Mrs. Bairnaught’s proposal dominated the next two days. Vera and Agnes chattered over the possibilities as they took Henri for long walks, during which he stopped to examine every late butterfly and wandering worm. Frederick got a taste of farm work while turning over with Phillip the advantages of re-inhabiting Agnes’s former home or staying their present course. It was hard to comprehend that Brookside could be returned to the family—the gardens, the secret bench, the grand terrace and library, all theirs once more to enjoy. But Brookside had been changed, who knew how much, by Mrs. Thorne and her legion of carpenters and decorators. And to install themselves again on the estate, Agnes and Phillip would have to turn their backs on what they had built together on the farm. Phillip would have to lease the land and manage it from a distance. Gone would be the early morning rooster call, the smell of fresh hay, and the joy of watching the crop he planted break through the spring soil. Fettles would no longer ride ten minutes each Sunday to the little chapel of Saints Peter and Paul, and Agnes would leave all her friends at Covenant Presbyterian, where she had just been elected head of the Ladies Relief Board.

            So it was that the evening after Vera and Frederick’s departure, over dinner, Agnes and Phillip decided that Brookside in all its beauty could not pull them from their rustic home at the end of the birch-lined lane. Agnes felt that the long chapter of her life lived in the great mansion was closed. Their decision made, Agnes wrote to Mrs. Bairnaught with an alternative to that lady’s generous offer, which was promptly accepted by return post.

            Their benefactor came to occupy the guest room and begin her new life with them in the first days of a particularly icy winter, happy in the bosom of the busy, noisy household. Agnes was especially grateful for her when spring came, when she herself lay confined to bed for days on end by doctor’s orders as they awaited the birth of baby Emmet. When Mrs. Bairnaught was not sitting by Agnes’s bed or sharing a sunny corner of the front porch with the two dogs, she could be found in the nursery reading to Henri or warmly admiring his skill at building wooden block towers.

            With the help of the widow’s copious funds, the couple built a guest cottage just behind the farmhouse the following summer, where both children spent many hours enjoying the attentions that only a grandparent—actual or adopted—wise and patient with years, can shower upon the young. As for the bulk of the Bairnaught money, it was jointly agreed to set it aside in ironclad accounts for the children’s future.

            The Duke found his way to the farm two days out of seven, and on Sunday afternoons the young family came to Fellcrest. These were always pleasant visits, largely because Mrs. Morgan had been replaced as housekeeper by Agnes’s own Mrs. Williams, who despite her efforts to remain unaffected, worshipped the children in her own stern way and slipped them sweets when their parents were not looking. (As for the discharged housekeeper, the much-relieved staff had observed the Duke, while her black cab rolled away, raise his arms and contort his face as though ensuring by some dark art that they should never set eyes on her again.)

            So the years turned, with children growing and everyone getting older through the passing seasons. On winter days as Agnes helped Marie hang laundry by the stove, she would sometimes look out the kitchen window and see her husband heading for the house, his hair blown back and his cheeks red from the raw November air. Above him gray clouds would be scudding southward, and for a moment, in the narrow spaces between them, the sun might shine through and light up his face. Then the old green kitchen door would squeak open, admitting him in a whirl of air rich with the smells of cold and animals and damp leaves.

            Stella remained in Chicago, separated by many hundreds of miles from her beloved Aunt Agnes, a distance reinforced by the arrival of several children in quick succession, which delighted Stella and William, but kept the Molls close to home. Still, the aunt and her niece wrote faithfully to each other every week no matter what domestic calamities tried to keep them from their pens and paper. They became closer than ever now as they exchanged common sympathies over a child’s illness or a husband’s forgetfulness or the price of little boys’ shoes.

            As for Abram Rockwell, the whole affair of the lost fortune shook him so profoundly that he retired from practice and spent most afternoons at the club, renewing his friendship with the classics. He was, however, comforted in seeing how happy Agnes’s life had become. He was further comforted by a somewhat puzzling letter that arrived one day from the south of France. It read simply “Wilbur is probably deceased, apparently at violent hands. Thought this might provide some solace to you and the Somersets, although it does nothing to restore what was lost. I myself am moving on somewhere as yet undecided. Farewell. –Eleanor”

            The indomitable Mrs. Rockwell, as the years went by, increased her stream of letters to congressmen, senators, the First Lady, and even the President, exhorting them to support the cause of women’s suffrage. Accompanied by her daughter, she paid several personal visits to these same luminaries in Washington and may well have been a force in moving to the forefront of possibility the radical idea of women casting their own vote.

            Just outside Chesterton, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Thoroughgood burned one evening, all its occupants barely escaping in their nightclothes. An investigation quickly showed that Lavinia had started the inferno while trying to incinerate an uncomfortable dress her mother had made her wear the day before. Afraid for their own lives, the couple sadly turned the young woman over to the county home for wayward girls, where she continued her reign of terror. Her parents left Chesterton for a pastor’s post in Alabama, where they adopted three orphans and lived as happily as parents can who have lost a child to wickedness.

            Far across the Atlantic, a young woman known as La Violette turned twenty. She had, after four years at La Coquette, lost the draw she once enjoyed, although she had never been more beautiful and still cast a spell on those who saw her for the first time. A month before her birthday, twins from Tunisia had taken her place as the main attraction, performing their provocative Arabian dance to roars of approval. Watching them she had suddenly felt old and prudish. She seemed to see her audience run past her, arms extended, wild-eyed and insatiable.

Fortunately, an agent from a club in Paris had visited and expressed interest in her, and two days later she packed up her few things, kissed Monsieur Vaudin and all the girls, and left Marseilles for a finer room and a larger window to lean against. As she stood there musing on sleepless nights, she felt the company of the Virgin Mary, whose likeness stood nearby atop a tarnished dome. Mary, white in the moonlight, constant and imperturbable, held out her arms above the rooftops in that ancient town of saints and scoundrels, of orphans and thieves. And together in this silent communion, the two women watched over the slumbering city.

Finis

Note to readers: Agnes may become available in its entirety as an e-book in the future. If you would like to receive word if this indeed happens, please email the author and I will let you know. Thank you for reading!

--Ann M. Doyle  doyleann@comcast.net

Episode 34: What Child Is This

Note to my faithful readers:  This is the second-to-last episode of our tale. Next week we will conclude our time with Agnes and her friends, and I thank you for getting to know them.  All the best, A. M. Doyle

Chapter 66

Lavinia knew that she would have to answer for her little pranks, but she did not care. It would follow the usual pattern: Father would come home and, hearing of her crime, would bring her into the parlor and give her a stern dressing-down, his lanky frame towering over her and his mouth set in a deep frown. He would sentence her to several hours of Bible reading, usually from Proverbs, and extended time in her room without visitors. By the next day her mother would have managed to commute the sentence and everything would return to normal.

            No, the punishment did not concern her. She had a bigger problem, which was the expulsion of the child with whom she had been forced to share her parents. “Heathen brat” was her new nickname for him when no one was listening. (Lavinia was not sure what heathen meant, but one day she heard women talking in the mercantile about how her parents had agreed to take one in, and the way those women said the word, she concluded it must be something bad.)

            After the bath incident, Lavinia bided her time. She even pretended to warm up to the wretch, dangling things playfully in front of him and pushing him through the house in his little wheeled seat. Mrs. Thoroughgood had begun to relax a bit as she watched them, and the cook mused optimistically that it only needed time for Lavinia to become attached to her new brother.

            Months passed, and Lavinia watched her mother grow ever fonder of the little boy. She felt herself barely noticed anymore. Now and then her mother made a feeble effort to compliment her or pull her into some silly game with the baby, but she remained convinced that it was just for show. The half-breed was completely eclipsing her in her parents’ affections.

            Spring came, then summer, and in the first chill, damp days of autumn Henri succumbed to a serious bout of cough and fever. His illness turned the house upside down with worry and frantic fussing around his bed. As days went by and the child continued to lie flushed and listless, Lavinia dared to hope that the illness would carry him away. But slowly his little body rallied, and he was once more toddling about talking his usual gibberish.

            Christmas was only days away. The greatest present Lavinia could imagine would be the absence of Henri. Still, she had not found a good way to bring it about, and her frustration, which she had learned to keep carefully concealed (a frightening ability in one so young), continued to mount. One blustery afternoon, on the day set for Henri’s weekly bath, Lavinia hung about the kitchen after school, watching and thinking. Her mother was at a meeting of the ladies’ charitable society. The cook had just set the boy in the tub of warm water by the fire and proceeded to carry out a brisk washing with arms lean and muscled from years of lifting kettles and beating stiff dough. Henri kept busy banging a spoon against the edge of the tub, making such a racket that Lavinia was about to march away when the cook, glancing over her shoulder, called to her.

            “Child, go fetch a gown for this one, will you? I thought I had everything, but . . .”

            “I don’t know where they are,” Lavinia lied over the din.

            “Of course you do. They are in the little chest just beside his bed.”

            “I hurt my ankle and Mother told me not to go up and down the stairs any more than I really must.”

            The cook cast a suspicious look on her. “Well, you stand right here and make sure he doesn’t climb out while I go get it. Don’t turn your back on him for a moment, do you hear?”

            Lavinia almost made a face but thought better of it and took the cook’s place beside the tub. Henri was now mercifully sucking on the spoon and splashing the water with his plump little hand. An idea came to her as the cook’s steps retreated down the hallway. He might slip. His face might go under. She reached into the tub and shifted the wet child backwards, supporting him on her arm. Bang went the spoon against metal. She cradled him lower still and the child’s arms went out, dropping the spoon into the murky water.

            “Down you go,” she cooed.

            Frightened, the child stared up at her and began to cry. Lavinia pulled him upright and pressed the spoon back into his hand, urging him in whispers to be quiet, but she managed only to increase his distress. He let go the spoon and wailed louder, looking all around through his tears as though for a savior. Grabbing the wet washcloth, she covered his mouth to muffle the crying, while breathing dire threats into his little ear.

            “Lavinia!” It was her mother’s voice, but twisted into a shriek as the girl had never heard. Lavinia froze and looked up to see her mother’s face contorted in horror. Mrs. Thoroughgood stood over her, still in her hat and coat. She pushed her daughter aside and grabbed the boy out of the water. Clutching him against her shoulder, she threw a towel over his back as he sobbed and spluttered. She could only stare at her daughter as though at a murderous stranger.

            The cook hurried into the kitchen with the gown in one hand and stopped. “What’s happened?” she cried. She looked from mother to daughter and asked again, louder this time.

            “He slipped.” Lavinia pushed the words out as through a small crack, grudgingly, like one who knew she would not be believed. She let the wet rag fall to the floor and ran from the room with tears of anger burning her eyes.

            The cook came close to Mrs. Thoroughgood and looked at her directly. “We can’t keep him, ma’m. Not with Miss Lavinia in the house. It’s not safe. One or t’other of them has to go.”

            Her mistress raised her eyes to hers, huge and unbelieving.

            “He’s not safe even another night here unless you put his bed in my room,” warned the cook.

            Mrs. Thoroughgood nodded weakly. “Yes,” she murmured. “And I thought she was doing so well with him . . .  .” Then she took a step closer to her cook and half whispered. “You won’t say anything, will you, May? You won’t tell what happened?”

            “How could I tell? I didn’t rightly see it. But no, I won’t say anything. Still,” she said, “you’re going to have to do something one day with that girl, and you know it’s so.”

            Mrs. Thoroughgood made no reply but wandered into the foyer, where, as in a daze, she reached her hand into the small urn by the door and retrieved the card she had dropped in when the child arrived just over a year ago. Within an hour, Henri was dressed and bundled in two blankets and a hat. The cook and maid loaded his belongings into a cab at the front door. Mrs. Thoroughgood placed a long kiss on Henri’s cheek and handed him to the cook, who settled back in the coach with her arms around the child.

            “What should I tell them, ma’m?” she asked her mistress.

            Mrs. Thoroughgood, wearing only a velvet dress against the chill evening air, clutched herself. “Just tell them that we are not in a position to keep him. Make sure they know—“ her voice caught—“ that he is a wonderful boy and it is not his fault that we must give him up.”

The good woman put her handkerchief to her face, shut the cab door, and hurried inside. The cook and little Henri rode together to Fellcrest, back from where he had come, as the first stars pricked the cold, pink dusk.

Chapter 67

Of all nights in the year, none can surpass Christmas Eve for its warmth of feeling and general merriment. And so it was at the Schmidt’s home that twenty-fourth of December, with all members of the household as well as Agnes and her small staff crowded around two tables for a dinner of roast duck, oysters, baked squash, cakes, puddings, and more delights for the tongue than can be named. (After hearing how Agnes had celebrated her last Thanksgiving at Brookside with her own staff around the table—rather than invited guests—Vera adopted the practice enthusiastically as embracing the true spirit of the holiday. She set up extra seating in the adjoining parlor to accommodate everyone and reserved for her use only those servants who were indispensable to preparing and serving the meal.) Mr. Frederick Schmidt presided at the dining room table with the rosy glow of both benefactor and blissful newlywed, as Vera described her various ideas for celebrating their first anniversary (which included, to her husband’s obvious discomfort, plans for ice skating followed by high tea in their home for several dozen close friends).

            The couple’s German cook worked miracles with every course that evening, sampling each one liberally along the way to ensure its perfection. The Schmidt’s impeccable but aloof Italian butler—hired by Vera upon moving into Frederick’s house to replace her own incompetent young man—in the spirit of the season, acquiesced to Fettles’ offer to help serve, and the latter shone with this return to duty at a “real” dinner, as he described it. The two butlers poured wine and set out new courses, all to exclamations of wonder and declarations that they, the diners, could not possibly eat another forkful, which was disproved time and again through the testimony of another empty platter.

            When everyone had done all possible justice to the dinner, they adjourned to the parlor to sing carols and light the tree. Vera, Agnes, and Fettles lit the tall spruce’s forty candles with care, straightening each one to drip as little wax as possible. Outside the window, the occasional cab drove by conducting what remained of the business and bustle of the day. The bells of St. Monica’s had long ago rung nine o’clock, and everyone in Vera’s parlor who was not touching matches to candle wicks sank into chairs or leaned heavily on the piano with the sweet satisfaction of being warm and well fed. A robust fire blazed on the hearth and, along with several lamps, bathed the room in honey-colored light. As the candle lighters finished their work, a cheer went up, and the congregation admired the great tree with its wonderful ornaments and gleaming silver tinsel.

            “What shall we start with?” asked Vera, taking her place at the piano.

            “’Hark the Harold’!” declared Fettles, handing around sheets of Christmas lyrics. “Or,” he said, slightly embarrassed, “whatever you wish.”

            All those present endorsed the choice, Vera found the page in her book of music, and the room rang with the carol’s bright chords. Such was the gusto of the singers that no one noticed that another voice had joined theirs during the second verse. It was not until they concluded the final refrain of Glory to the newborn King that Fettles, looking around in satisfaction, uttered a simple “Oh!” Everyone followed his wide-eyed gaze to a figure standing just inside the parlor doorway, still wearing his coat and holding his hat. The man’s sandy hair gleamed dully in the light of the lamp just beside him, as he turned his hat in his hands and smiled uncertainly. 

            Agnes gasped. Frederick came forward to give Phillip a genial handshake, and Vera got out from behind the piano to hold Agnes’s cold hand. “It’s alright,” she murmured to her niece, “be a good girl and don’t faint for us.” Mr. Schmidt introduced Phillip to the household while Fettles took his coat and hat. The cook served him a glass of warm punch and fetched a plate of food from the kitchen, and Vera returned to the piano. The festivities resumed with renditions of several more Christmas favorites while Phillip took a seat beside Agnes and shared her sheet music. She did not look at him—a direct gaze might reveal that he was not really there at all. She sang in a whisper, listening to his voice and reeling inside from a hundred imaginings as to why he had come.

            As midnight approached, Fettles and the young Italian butler donned their hats and coats, shook hands all around, and headed up the street to Mass, having discovered that they both belonged to the same ancient and venerable Christian institution. Mr. Schmidt politely decided it was time for him to retire, bowed to his wife with a wink, and headed for his room. The rest of the party blew out the Christmas candles, taking care not to spatter wax onto the precious glass ornaments. The partiers then broke up to put away the last of the refreshments or retire to their rooms, leaving Agnes, Phillip, and Vera alone. Vera trimmed the lamps, sinking the room into a collection of large shadows cast by the still-vigorous fire. Phillip crouched to turn a log, and Agnes fiddled with the tree trimmings.

            After adjusting the last lamp, Vera turned and smiled at her niece. “Lord Phillip wrote to me that he had some news to share with you. He offered to come after Christmas, but I said why wait? I certainly didn’t want to spend the holiday wondering what it might be! But I’ll leave you two to discuss it.” Vera glided from the room and slid the pocket doors closed behind her.

            Agnes looked at Phillip, who stood half-lit by the orange light of the fire.

            “Will you sit down?” he asked, indicating the deep red sofa beside the fireplace. Agnes came over and sat, absently gathering her skirt into her hands. Having once dared to look at him directly, she now could not take her eyes off him. Phillip sat beside her and drew Rupa’s letter from his breast pocket. “You read French, don’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’d very much like you to read this.”

            Agnes tilted the pages toward the firelight to examine the handwriting. “Aloud?”

            “No, please, I have been over it many times.”

            Agnes drew the letter closer and read silently. Halfway through she took his hand and squeezed it and kept it until she had finished.

            At last she lowered the letter and looked at him earnestly. “He’s not yours, just as you said.”

            “No.”

            “That poor girl.”

            They stared at each other. “My father said that if I didn’t come after you he’d never speak to me again—or words to that effect.”

            “So you’re here because he told you to come—yet judging by the date on the letter, it has taken you more than a year.”

            “Well, there’s a reason for that. Two reasons, really. I’m sure you remember the accusations you sent me off with the last time we talked.”

            Agnes worked to hold his gaze. “I remember.”

            “That I was merely amusing myself with your company, toying with your affections. Never seriously intending anything like the marriage we talked about.”

            His words cut into her. Agnes dropped her gaze toward the shimmering green folds of her skirt. 

            “You were a pleasant game to pass the time with,” Phillip continued. He broke off and looked to the blazing hearth. Rising, he slid his hands into his pockets and took a turn around the room.

            “A man does not push such words easily aside. I tried to—when this letter arrived I rode the same day to show it to you. Like a madman I rushed to Brookside only to find the house empty. I can’t describe how that felt—to find you gone and not even know where. Father said I should pursue you. Said some rather harsh things about me that day, in fact.

            “Well, I can’t quite say why I didn’t do what he said. Somehow I just could not work up the will to risk it, I guess. Which probably makes Father right about my being cowardly.”

             “Your father called you cowardly?”

            “I can’t blame him. I imagine you felt the same. Father and I are so different. And look what I have put the poor man through. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. We come to the second reason why I am here only now.” Phillip came around to face Agnes. “My bargaining position has unexpectedly improved.”

            Agnes looked up at him, puzzled.

            “I’ll explain,” replied Phillip. “But I must know if you would still consider going in with me on that idea we talked about last summer.”

            “Which one? The one we agreed to keep secret so you could quietly back out?”

            Phillip’s face darkened.

            Agnes grabbed his hand impulsively. “I take that back, I’m sorry. I have told myself for a long time that you never were serious. I had to.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it was too much otherwise.” Agnes’s face contracted as she searched his eyes. “To think that what we felt was real and might have worked, that we might have married, was too awful. Better to believe that it was only an illusion all along.”

            At this Phillip’s defenses fell, and Agnes saw the man she remembered. He sank onto his knees before her where she sat and pulled from his coat pocket a tiny velvet box. “What a fool I have been, Agnes! I should have shouted our news in the streets. I should have given you something like this.” He set the box in her lap and clasped both her hands. “I have the farm, Agnes. It’s not what you are used to, but I’m improving the house and by summer it will be very sufficient. I have ducks, cows, and a couple of good horses—I think I might actually be able to make a go of this.”

            He searched her face. Agnes sat motionless, her eyes wide. “Is that the improvement in your position?”

            “No, no. You see, I understand if I am not sufficiently appealing on my own. But if you should say yes, dear Agnes, if you are still agreeable . . .”

            Phillip let go of her hands and stepped lightly to the doors, sliding them open just enough to pass through. Agnes heard him walk upstairs and wondered if he had left her alone to work out the riddle he’d just given her. She rubbed her fingers over the soft surface of the box, then timidly opened it. Inside gleamed a dainty ring of rosy gold with a circle of tiny diamonds surrounding one lustrous pearl. She gently pulled out the ring to examine it, turning it toward the firelight, and judged it the most beautiful ring ever made. Unable to resist, she slipped it carefully onto her finger. The fit was exact. Hurriedly, she pulled it off and set it back in the box. She was so overcome with feelings that her mind felt suspended, unable to make sense of what she had just learned or the army of possibilities overrunning her. One thought stood out, however, from the wild throng: He loves me still.

            Agnes wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief. She heard Phillip’s footsteps returning, but could tell he was not alone. She looked up to see him slip back into the room and then step to one side. Behind him came Vera leading a small boy whose huge eyes shone in the firelight as he approached on his sturdy little legs. Agnes rose with her handkerchief to her mouth, then slowly knelt down to look at the lad. The boy’s wondering gaze moved from the fire to Agnes, and their eyes met. She made no sound as she took his little hand in both of hers. Then she began to laugh in short, broken pieces as tears ran freely down her face. Vera let go of Henri’s hand and Agnes gathered him into her arms. She held him there, stroking his soft hair, and shaking in quiet sobs, as Vera withdrew from the room. From outside in the darkness, they heard the clangorous bells of St. Monica’s announcing Christmas Day to the sleepy city.

            It was into this scene that the two butlers returned, their noses reddened with cold and their faces lit with a convivial cheer that only the yuletide season can bestow upon two such dissimilar people. Vera quietly explained what was happening, and the two men let their mouths drop slightly open in the mystified way that bachelors do when the high emotion of matrimony is in the air. They crept on tiptoe to the kitchen where they knew hot cocoa and gingerbread awaited them. Along the way they held their breath like people afraid of catching some life-changing contagion.

To be continued . . .

Episode 33: Agnes and Fettles Conspire to Bring Christmas to Vera's Home

Chapter 64

Fettles was sulking for the third straight day, and Agnes did not think she could bear one more hour of it. She had expressly asked him to be at tea that afternoon, but he stayed away once more. Agnes was able to drink only half a cup before making a quick apology to Vera and going in search of him. She found him in his room reading Augustine, which he only did in his blackest moods. Napoleon and Empress both lay at his feet with their noses on their paws, the scene feebly lit by the room’s only window. Fettles looked at her testily above his reading glasses.

            “Why are you closeting yourself like this?” she demanded, clutching the sides of her gray silk skirt with both hands. “We’ve hardly seen you for the better part of three days.”

            “I don’t see why that would pose a problem,” he returned. “The household is fully staffed—I’m not needed as far as I can tell.”

            Agnes dropped onto the edge of the perfectly made bed. Within three feet was a second bed, whose covers were casually tossed over it, partially covering a dented pillow. Vera’s house was modest, and Fettles was sharing a room with Ned.

            “You know this is temporary,” said his mistress. “It’s hard for all of us.”

            “Is it?” he replied archly. “You are reunited with your delightful aunt, with whom you spend happy hours each day, and I am indeed glad for that, Agnes.” Things were truly out of kilter—he was calling her by her Christian name. “Marie continues to attend you as your personal maid, as she should. Ned busies himself fixing hinges and repairing cellar walls. But no home needs two butlers.”

            Fettles adjusted the pillow behind his back and set his glasses on a small table at his elbow.

            “You know, I tried to be helpful,” he continued. “I understand my reduced position as a guest. Several times I offered to organize the wines or dust chandeliers, or whatever that drudge of a butler might want my assistance with, but every time I open my mouth he seems to suffer some affront as though I am criticizing his abilities. So I’ve concluded that this is the safest place for me, where I cannot offend anyone or get in the way.”

            Agnes slid closer. Fettles was right—of all of them he was the most out of place at Vera’s house, largely due to the ungraciousness of Vera’s butler, a young man her aunt had employed out of sympathy for his mother. Sullen and insecure, the young butler had indeed rejected all of Fettles’ overtures to help, and a man of Fettles’ constitution found the keenest torment in sitting idle. In addition, the topsy-turvy character of Vera’s home, where coats were as often thrown over chairs as hung on hooks, and dirty plates cluttered the table long after meals concluded, made Fettles’ little room the only refuge for the man’s delicate nerves. And even in that space, he had to contend with his roommate’s casual habits. Agnes decided to repeat what they already knew.

            “The wedding is in early January. That’s only two weeks away. Then they shall be in Mr. Schmidt’s house and we shall have this one to ourselves. Besides, in three days it’s Christmas. You don’t want to spoil my Christmas with a sour spirit, do you?” A smile played around her lips.

            In any other year, Fettles would have been in his glory at this time of year. Christmas lit him up with a perennial excitement the whole household looked forward to seeing. Every year he applied himself with gusto to choosing the perfect tree and improving on the previous year’s decorations, with the result that Brookside had become famous for its sumptuous displays of evergreen garlands and complicated nativity scenes. People used to find excuses to visit the Somersets just to gawk at the glorious testimony to Christmas that Fettles put on exhibit each December.

            “I’ve talked to Vera about the need for a tree in the front parlor,” Agnes continued. “She puts up little more than a wreath each year, as you’ve seen. It’s all right by her if we go get one, so why don’t you and I go out tomorrow and select the best fir we can find and hang it with some of our decorations?” 

            Fettles looked fixedly at Agnes. Conflicting feelings seemed to contend within him, and after a moment he asked pointedly, “Why doesn’t she decorate?” 

            “Oh, you see that she decorates the house handsomely in general. But she says she cannot be bothered with seasonal decoration, mostly because it saddens her when it must be taken down. Still, she said she won’t mind provided we do it.” 

            “Well that’s something, at least,” said Fettles, sitting up and closing his book. “I know where the trimmings are, at least, so we’ll have no trouble there. This house is badly in need of some yuletide cheer!” 

            Agnes clapped her hands and rose. “I’ll want to go early. With Christmas almost here we must get the best of what’s left. I saw some trees for sale two blocks from here—” 

            “Yes, on Grand, next to the cab stand!”

            “That’s the place. They don’t have many, but you can work magic with whatever we bring home.”

            Fettles stood, passed a hand over his rebellious hair, and straightened his jacket. “I’ll bring up the decorations. We could use with a few more candleholders; some are old and don’t clamp anymore.”

            “Do we still have tinsel?”

            “Plenty left from last year.”

            As evening fell, the two friends sat before the parlor fire sorting through the decorations and deciding which they would use on the one tree. (In its heyday, Brookside had up to three glittering trees gracing the foyer, main parlor, and dining room.) Agnes pulled out the garlands of glass beads and the tatted snowflakes. Fettles found the tinsel and a sampling of his favorite ornaments from across the years. He also brought out the carved nativity scene Mr. Somerset had brought home from Portugal when Agnes was a tiny girl. After all this time, the only signs of wear were one broken shepherd’s hook and a three-legged donkey.

            After dinner the sorting continued, as Vera and Frederick sat with them drinking warm punch and commenting on Christmases past. As Fettles inventoried the working candle clips, Vera asked if they intended to light the tree, to which Agnes said it would not really be a Christmas tree without lights. This brought from Frederick a full account of Mr. Johnson’s all-electric tree that appeared in the papers last Christmas to the wonderment of all. Vera said she supposed that candles would be all right if they kept the usual bucket of sand close by and spread an old rug under the tree to catch any wax. As the clock’s hands hovered near midnight, Mr. Schmidt took his leave. The remaining three decided to rearrange the parlor furniture to make way for the tree, then went to their separate rooms in delightful anticipation of the next day’s activities so peculiar to that cheerful season.

        The following morning, in a slicing wind, Agnes and Fettles repaired after breakfast to the tree seller and picked out a respectable spruce nearly nine feet tall whose only fault was an undeniable bald spot on one side. The two determined that the flaw could be turned to the corner and hidden, so they happily ordered it tied to the roof of the cab and brought it home. Ned sawed off a piece from the bottom of the sticky trunk, trimmed up the lower boughs, and set it in the space cleared the previous night. To everyone’s surprise, it took up an entire corner of the parlor, proving again that Christmas trees become twice as large when brought inside the house. It proudly stood where passersby would see it from the street (something Agnes insisted upon, as she loved riding down the street herself and seeing the glittering trees in people’s homes). Marie arrived with two boxes of candles and new candleholders, and the three—Ned excused himself as one not gifted in the art of embellishment—set to work transforming the plain but rich-smelling tree into a wonder of white lace, red glass, gold, and silver.

            When they had finished, everyone stood back and admired the effect. Outside the wind had slacked, and snow had begun falling in large flakes past the front window. Fettles finished setting up the Nativity figures on a small round table draped in white and turned to Agnes. “I think I shall go to Mass on Christmas Eve,” he announced.

            “Really!”

            He cleared his throat and looked back to the tree. “I have hardly gone since leaving home as a boy. There was no Catholic church in Chesterton, you know.”

            “I never realized it mattered to you.”

            “It didn’t.” He looked at her bravely. “I am wondering now if it should have.”

            Agnes felt the depth of his words and a sense of slow but certain turning, like that of a great vessel whose captain has realized that they have sailed fully half their route several degrees off course.

            “I noticed one just down the block,” she observed.

            “Yes, St. Monica’s. I thought I might go.”

            “Well, you should,” Agnes agreed. “You’re overdue.”

            Fettles nodded and applied himself to removing the empty boxes and tissue paper to the cellar. Napoleon trotted after him, leaving Empress to guard the wondrous tree before falling asleep, curled in a semicircle on the old red rug beneath it.

Chapter 65

The holidays came and went at Vera’s house as pleasantly as could be hoped under the circumstances. Then, in the first frosty days of January, Vera and Frederick Schmidt took each other as man and wife at a simple ceremony in the old First Presbyterian Church. Vera took up her place as Mrs. Schmidt at Frederick’s handsome townhouse, losing no time in transforming the bachelor’s dark interiors into a vibrant landscape that he hardly recognized as home. His library, however, remained his, all deep red leather and green, and served as a comfortable refuge from the unexpected intensity of conjugal living. Having taken in the better part of Agnes’s cherished books from the shelves of Brookside, he spent many a glad hour pouring over the old volumes, taking particular delight in studying Mr. Audubon’s spectacular feathered subjects while Vera flew about the city on her many missions.

            Agnes and her small staff made Vera’s old house their own, arranging the few pieces of furniture and decorative bits of art they had kept from Brookside so that, little by little, the house began to feel like theirs. The sale of Brookside provided Agnes sufficient funds to run the household for some time, and Mr. Rockwell had invested part of the proceeds to afford her a small but steady income.

            Agnes was wise enough to be grateful for the simplified life required by her narrowed circumstances. With no gardens of her own, she learned the practical pleasure of strolling through public parks obligingly maintained by the City of New York. Without stable or carriage house, she employed public cabs and found they did the job admirably. She knew she was fortunate to have her duties reduced since she had still not recovered the strength, either of body or spirit, that she enjoyed before her illness. When she pictured managing the estate once more, with all that it entailed, her heart failed her, and she could not imagine governing again such broad affairs.

            However, the loss of Brookside created a hole in Agnes that could not be denied. Life on the estate was all she had known from her birth, and that life constituted the measure of everything she would later meet with. The home of our youth becomes the archetypal home—its feel, its furnishings and customs—and every other home is an odd thing that sits, as at a strange angle, and must be analyzed and studied to be understood. And as much as Agnes studied this city life and applied herself to taking advantage of its good features, still she longed for the green view out her bedroom windows and wet grass in the morning, for breakfast on the terrace where early sparrows jumped forward for fallen crumbs, and for a thousand other pleasures and unexamined details that were exactly what should be but were no more.

            This break with all she had known would have been enough to constrict Agnes’s heart, but her loss had taken on a more bitter taste still. Scarcely a month after moving out, Agnes heard from Chesterton friends that laborers and craftsmen were at work on the rooms of the old mansion, painting and wallpapering. Masons had been commissioned to build a showy portico onto the front, and carpenters were adding lavish details to transform the stately home into a model of the latest architectural fashion.

            These changes hurt and confused her; after all, Brookside was perfect just the way it was. But when Ned and Fettles (who together had the unhappy task of breaking the news) told Agnes that the new owner, the woman who pulled into the buzzing estate almost daily to check on the progress of its transformation, was none other than Mrs. Claudia Thorne, they confirmed what Agnes had long suspected but did not want to know.

            When finally able to speak, she asked, “Do you think that she was behind everything somehow, just to get Brookside?”

            “Very possible,” declared Fettles. “That woman is capable of anything. Satan himself takes lessons from her.”

            Ned stroked his thick moustache and thought. “No. What happened to Phillip—and also to you, ma’m, if I may say—bore her mark. But losing the family money was beyond her reach. That was surely all Wilbur’s doing.”

            Wilbur. Agnes liked to imagine that he and Eleanor were living meagerly in one of the dirtier European cities, getting by somehow on a mixture of lies and bravado and forever looking over their shoulders.

            Agnes believed that Ned must be right. Even the Thorne had her limits. She probably just took advantage of a situation she could only have dreamed of: The Somersets reduced to penury; all assets to be liquidated at sacrificial prices. Suddenly she remembered the piano, the grand family heirloom, now forced to provide music for Claudia’s garish parties. A sick feeling spread through her and remained the rest of the day. She spoke not another word until bedtime, and retired without her dinner. The household avoided speaking of Brookside again.

            As for her other great loss, a day did not pass without Phillip walking through Agnes’s mind. Now he was laughing at one of her stories over tea, now patting down Queen Anne after a galloping ride, now unfastening his damp necktie in the afternoon heat. They had not spoken since that ugly scene in the parlor, which felt like years ago, although barely five months had passed. She wondered how little Henri was getting on, whether Phillip was making a go of the farm, or whether he had already moved on to some other idea. Maybe farming did not suit him any better than all the other work he had tried. She wondered if she had been too hard on him in their last conversation. But his long silence told her no. He had not visited nor sent any letter since that last day (she felt that she was easy enough to find for anyone who wanted to), reinforcing her conviction that he was relieved to be shed of her.

            Winter dragged on well into April. But near the end of the month, Spring arrived like a mail train running late. It exploded onto the city as though atoning for its tardiness with a vigor that touched every corner of the metropolis. Green tips shot up from even the smallest patch of dirt, and leaves popped out on branches overnight. The sudden currents of warm air sent people diving into trunks for their summer clothes, and the city’s population of children, now running in shirtsleeves through the streets, seemed to have doubled in a season.

            Walking out one Saturday morning with the sun on her face, Agnes pulled in a deep helping of the mild air. She stood on the front stoop feeling for a moment a fraction of that old feeling that always came to her in spring, the wild sensation that anything was possible. These days, she knew better. Still, watching a troop of wispy clouds flowing by against the blue sky, hearing the frantic chatter all around of birds building nests, and stunned by the sudden color of daffodils and flowering crabapples, she was reminded that life must surely resume.

            She could not help imagining this same spring, of which she saw such a narrow wedge here in the city, washing lavishly over Brookside. The gardens were no doubt erupting in a jubilant show of blooms. The lawns would be turning green again and the fountain splashing in the dazzling way it did when first turned on. But these wonders now lay in Claudia’s grasping hands. Agnes shook herself and turned her attention back to the pavement beneath her feet as she headed for the Schmidt’s house. Today, with the weather so fine, she was walking rather than riding the six long blocks to her aunt’s home. Vera was taking her shopping for a spring dress—something bright, Vera said, just the thing to welcome a new season.

            Agnes knew her aunt referred to more than the weather. Vera, with her indomitable personality, seemed to be growing impatient with her niece’s subdued spirits. Agnes tried. She had accepted many of Vera’s invitations to concerts, operas, and charitable events around town, but nothing took root. She considered volunteering for a host of good causes that Vera proposed, but failed to pursue any. Even her attendance at church had grown spotty, something for which Fettles, with his renewed dedication to Rome, gently chastised her.

            Even the children dashing past Agnes on their way to the day’s adventures failed to lift her heart. They only reminded her of little Henri, who should be walking by now and beginning to talk. She prayed that the Thoroughgoods were loving him as least as much as she did. She was sure that if she saw him now she would hardly recognize him, nor he her, so quickly does Time work upon the body and mind of little children.

            And so spring gave way to summer, summer to fall, and fall to winter. All the while Agnes could only imagine the two greatest loves of her life moving in their own worlds, their memories of her dimming even into darkness, as their lives played out in places she would probably never set foot. Several times, when the memories became too much, she had almost written to Phillip. But then what? Wait every day in torment, looking for the postman to bring a reply? Better to leave it all alone and trust that another year might close the wounds, if that were even possible.

To be continued . . .

Episode 32: Henri Changes Hands Again and Meets His New Family

Chapter 62

Claudia passed her hand over the contract, examining again the signatures and seals. She hardly heard Mr. Edwin Rood, branch manager for Sutterfield Brothers, repeat her name. Looking up at last, she saw him extending a large key toward her.

            “They dropped it off just this morning on their way out,” he smiled.

            Claudia took it from him and felt its weight. Brookside. The key to the front door.

            “There are many others,” Mr. Rood continued, picking up a bag that jangled as he placed it on the table before her. “They are all labeled. Very thoughtful people, the Somersets.”

            Claudia folded the contract, grabbed the bag of keys, and rose. “So they are completely done there, are they?”

            “Yes, ma’m.”

            “Good. A week from today you’ll put Beaujour on the market. And I don’t want any surprises—viewings will be by appointment only, you understand.”

            “We will need to work up a complete listing agreement and proposed terms of sale—“

            “Of course. We can take care of all that when I come by next.”

            Mr. Rood glanced at his associate as much as to say “What can one do with the woman?” but only replied, “Very good.”

            Claudia paused.  She still needed these men’s help to effect a profitable sale. She extended her hand to Mr. Rood and bestowed a smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Rood. To do all this in the absence of my husband, well, it’s been difficult, and you’ve been wonderful.”

            The lawyer blinked slowly and smiled. “It has been our pleasure, Mrs. Thorne.”

            With a final warm look for both men, she gathered herself up and exited. Mr. Rood looked down from the front window as she boarded her carriage, then tugged two windows open to drive away the thick smell of lilac perfume.

            * * *

            Phillip rode home from Brookside with the reins slack, letting Queen Anne set her own pace. She seemed to sense his despondency and walked gently, now and then turning her head to the side as though checking that he was still in the saddle. The trip north took over twice as long as the joyous ride south, and Phillip rode past his father’s house without stopping. 

            The day was waning as he reached home and walked into the barn. To his surprise, he found that his father was still there, hardly recognizable in old dungarees and a rough jacket, helping Richmond toss fresh hay into the stalls with the gusto of one who has at last found his true calling. Phillip was only a few feet from his father when this hearty laborer caught sight of him, uttering a cry of greeting. The Duke planted his pitchfork in the ground, narrowly missing his own boot, and beamed at his son. Although he could not make out the young man’s face clearly in the dim barn, the droop of his shoulders and drag in his step told him that things had not gone well.

            “What’s wrong? Did you read her the letter?”

            Phillip sat down heavily on a milking stool. Richmond lit a lantern and hung it from a low beam, then led Queen Anne away for a good brushing. The lantern cast a golden light over the two men, the pile of soft hay, and the old wooden stalls. The Duke pulled a short bench over and sat facing his son, his hands on his knees. He listened as Phillip recounted what he had found at Brookside.

            “Do you know where she’s gone?” asked the Duke, frowning.

            “No. Maybe to the City, maybe to Chicago.”

            “We can find out.”

            Phillip hung his head. “Maybe we should let it be. Maybe the letter will not make such a great difference after all. She only thought I was toying with her anyway--”

            “Let it be?” exclaimed the Duke. “Are you ready to give up? Are you really? On a woman like that?”

            “Do you forget our last conversation, Father, hers and mine? She called me a cad. She didn’t even believe I loved her. I wonder why I even went back today.”

            The Duke sat silent, as one fighting to control himself. Then he grabbed his son by the shoulders and pulled him closer. Startled, Phillip stiffened and looked into his father’s eyes.

            “If you let this woman go, Phillip, so help me God I’ll have no sympathy for you ever again. None!” He squeezed his son’s shoulders until they hurt, glaring at him ferociously. The accumulated frustration of many long years flowed into his grip.

            “People say things they don’t mean. They say cruel things when they cannot bear the pain any more. Put it aside. Do you want to be alone your whole life? I am alone and I ache from it. But I had the joy of your mother for the years we shared. I have you children. But you, this indecisiveness, this, this—” he seemed to struggle to let the word out “—cowardice!”

            The Duke released his son and stood up. He pulled with finality at his vest. “You’re a far bigger fool than I ever thought if you let her go this easily.” With that the Duke grabbed his coat off a nail and marched into the twilight. But before Phillip could collect his thoughts, his father appeared again in the open doorway.

            “I’ll expect a visit from you within the week to let me know what you have found out.” Then he turned abruptly and was gone.

Chapter 63

On the outskirts of Chesterton, the fine houses looked much like their counterparts in the city but kept their distance from each other as well as from the road. Among these self-contained kingdoms sat the square, red-brick residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Thoroughgood. Mr. Thoroughgood held a high position in the town’s Methodist church and, by virtue of his confident manner and persuasive powers of speech, was asked to preach the Sunday sermons while the congregation waited for their new pastor to arrive from Liverpool. The remaining days of the week Mr. Thoroughgood spent running a well-ordered office for the largest lumber company in the state, not unlike the well-ordered home he presided over.

            Mrs. Thoroughgood admired her husband almost to adulation, and certainly to the point of self-deprecation. She felt deeply guilty for not having furnished the family with more than one child, a daughter, whom she lavished all of her loving attention upon. Indeed, Mrs. Thoroughgood could have had ten children and made each feel like the most precious, being a woman with a nearly bottomless reserve of affection.

Their daughter, Lavinia, despite her father’s stern but infrequent efforts to form her into a selfless, no-nonsense young woman of faith, showed at the age of nine no characteristics tending in that direction. The servants had witnessed the scamp making faces at her father behind his back and telling bald lies to her mother to escape punishment for broken dishes and ruined clothing. The family cat, an otherwise friendly and affectionate creature, ran at the sight of her.

            It was into this household that little Henri was carried one afternoon by Mrs. Morgan, who handed him unceremoniously into the arms of Mrs. Thoroughgood.

            “You’re to be praised for taking this one in,” Mrs. Morgan pronounced soberly. She pointed to a corner of the foyer and the driver set down the child’s meager luggage on the gleaming floor. Mrs. Thoroughgood took the baby and began cooing and rubbing his soft cheeks with her plump finger.

            Mrs. Morgan resumed, “There’s not many as would give a Christian home to such a child. He’s a mistake, you know, and by rights ought not be here to burden the likes of you and me.”

            Mrs. Thoroughgood looked at the dark courier in mild reproach. “Oh, no,” she declared. “My husband says God does not make mistakes, and he made this little angel.” She bounced Henri gently in her arm as he studied her gentle face. “Would you like tea?” she asked Mrs. Morgan brightly. “We were just serving.”

            “No, madam, I’m a working woman with no time for tea. I must be getting back straight. These are all his things,” she said, nodding toward the trunk. “If you don’t have what’s needed, it’s none of my doing. He was sheltered by single ladies before coming here, and heaven knows how they made do.

            “I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Mrs. Thoroughgood assured her. “Thank you so much.”

            Mrs. Morgan stared at her for a moment and turned to go.

            “One more thing,” she muttered, turning back around and pulling a card from her coat pocket. “If it don’t work out, I’m told to tell you to send word to his lordship and someone will come fetch him.”

            Mrs. Thoroughgood took the card bearing Phillip’s name and address, examined it briefly, and dropped it in a small urn beside the door. She assured Mrs. Morgan that she would keep the kind precaution in mind. With that the housekeeper left, letting in a sharp gust of cold before the door shut behind her.

            A stout manservant carried the trunk upstairs to the nursery that had been newly decorated in blue for the little boy. Mrs. Thoroughgood and her maid stowed his little outfits into a mahogany chest of drawers, laying one out on the changing table for after his bath, which the lady of the house said must be their first order of business. In the kitchen they set a shallow tub on the table before the fire and filled it with warm water. Mrs. Thoroughgood had already put in an extensive supply of bathing products and lotions, which she arrayed beside the tub, and had the maid lay out a thick towel to receive the sparkling child. Mrs. Thoroughgood carefully laid Henri down and unfastened his clothes, talking to him all the while, as the cook and the maid admired the little boy, ready to assist in any way. Testing the water with her wrist, Mrs. Thoroughgood lowered the boy into the tub, then shampooed and soaped and rinsed him until no bit of uncleanliness, however minute, could possibly remain.

            It was during this procedure that young Lavinia quietly entered the kitchen, unnoticed by anyone, so firmly concentrated were they on the operation at hand. Leaning against the sink, she twirled the end of a braid and listened to the excited warbling of the three women, watching their backs against the glow of the great fireplace. As her mother lifted the baby triumphantly out of the water, she drew closer to observe the new curiosity.

            “Oh, Lavinia, dear, look at your new brother,” said her mother, wrapping him in the soft, white towel while the maid rubbed his wet head industriously with another. “Isn’t he a little doll? We are going to have so much fun with him!” Mrs. Thoroughgood put out an arm and drew her daughter closer. Lavinia stood beside her and eyed the newcomer.

            “I wish it was a girl. Then I could dress her up.”

            The ladies chuckled. “He has darling little suits you can dress him in, dear, just wait until you see them,” assured Mrs. Thoroughgood. “And we can go into town tomorrow and get him a few more, as he doesn’t have much. You can come and help pick them out.”

            Little Henri turned his brown eyes upon the girl and lifted his brows. Lavinia took this to mean, “Who are you? No one important. At least not any more.” She had not wanted him to come into their home, and now she knew she was right—he was a wretched little thing and already taking her place in everyone’s heart. She looked up at the faces of the three happy women as they beamed at her, their cheeks red from the warmth of the kitchen. The cook handed her a pair of tiny knit booties to put on the baby’s curling feet. Lavinia felt the soft yarn and ran the blue ribbons between her fingers. She tossed them one by one into the soapy water, threw a daring look at her mother, and stalked upstairs to her room to rearrange her piles of toys.

To be continued . . .