Episode 7: A Twist of the Thorn and a Garden Rendezvous

Chapter 12

Fatigue filled Agnes as she left Stella’s room. She knew she needed a nap, especially since tonight she would be reading aloud her history of Brookside after dinner, and a lackluster performance was out of the question. She had put too much work into it for that. She would go to her room, ring for Fettles to check on the state of things, and lie down until tea. But as though anticipating her thoughts, Fettles approached from the far end of the hall with a tray bearing a single card. He held it out to her without a word.

            Agnes picked up the rich ivory card. Mrs. Sherman Thorne. She looked at Fettles with mild alarm. “Now? Again?”

            “In the parlor, ma’m.”

            Agnes exhaled hotly. “Tell her I am not at home—no, tell her—oh, why does she insist on dropping by at the absolutely worst times?!”

            “I can send her away. I would be very happy to.”

            Agnes thought. “No, I feel I must keep an eye on her. Let us just get this over with. And no tea, Fettles, whatever you do. We don’t need to prolong the agony.”

            Agnes found Claudia displayed to advantage in a deep brown dress with a finely worked lace collar. Above it, her perfect chin tilted upward as she beamed a benevolent smile.

            “I spoke with the Duke on my way in,” remarked Claudia without rising. “He looks very well. He was a great friend of your father’s, wasn’t he?”

            “He was,” answered Agnes, perching on the edge of a facing chair, “although they knew each other a fairly short time before Father’s death. But our families’ friendship has continued.”

            “Still not remarried, I assume?”

            “That’s true.”

            “Well,” confessed Claudia, “I hope you’ll forgive my just popping in once more, especially in the middle of your lovely fete, but—“ dropping her voice, “I was wondering about the Duke’s son. Did he come?”

            “Yes, he did. He was kind enough to come along and stay with a crowd of people he has never met, which is very brave, really.”

            “I’d like to meet him.”

            Agnes shifted in her chair. Failing to offer any refreshment to her visitor was only a small affront given the busy circumstances, but to refuse to introduce her to Lord Phillip was not possible. She rang for Fettles and asked him to request a moment of Lord Phillip’s time. In moments he was leading the young gentleman into the parlor. Phillip looked slightly bewildered and registered no amazement at the spectacle of the legendary Mrs. Thorne. Agnes introduced them, watching Phillip closely. He took Claudia’s hand briefly with a small bow and began a subtle study of her person. Agnes could see him taking in her feathered hat, her face, the costly earrings. She could almost hear his pen scratching notes.

            “Agnes has scored a great victory having you to herself this week,” Claudia cooed. “Everyone is talking, we are all so anxious to make your acquaintance, Lord Phillip. I trust you will be generous enough to visit the rest of us as soon as time permits? We would so love to hear about India.”

            “Would you?” asked Phillip, holding his hands behind his back. “When?”

            Claudia stammered. “Well, any time you like, I’m sure.”

            “The Wednesday after next?”

            Claudia for once was caught off guard. “Yes. That would be delightful. I shall expect you, then?”

            “I shall be there.”

            Agnes felt her cheeks flush. That would be a week after the end of his time at Brookside. Why was he so anxious to leap into this woman’s web? Was he smitten? He didn’t look like it. Was this just more research? Either way, she recoiled at the idea of his sitting comfortably across from Claudia, enjoying a light lunch, sniffing his entrée and sharing his observations on the Orient.

            “I should go,” Claudia was saying, “and leave you to your guests.”

            Agnes smiled.

            “May I show you out?” offered Phillip, extending his arm. Claudia poured a satisfied look over Agnes, took his arm, and swished away. Agnes heard the bubbling laugh.

She did not get her nap, and Phillip did not come to tea. Agnes occupied herself by introducing Stella, who felt much improved after a short rest, to those she had not met and listening to accounts of the hunt. Several people offered slightly different versions of Mr. McMeed’s behavior and his wife’s interference with the fox’s destiny, but it was clear that everyone had enjoyed himself enormously and would tell the story many more times to other audiences.

            Agnes dawdled over her tea, drinking three cups rather than her usual one. She sat afterwards with Stella on the terrace for nearly half an hour before excusing herself to find Phillip in the topiary as they had agreed.

            Shadows lengthened over the lawns as Agnes walked slowly toward the gardens, breathing in the delicious early evening air. She pulled her skirts close as she passed through the old arches draped in white climbing roses and stopped to put her nose in one. They gave off their sweet scent so freely at this time of day. It hung in the air above the fine gravel path where the delicate blossoms clung to the stone pillars and twined around the heavy black chains between them. She passed white, pink, and red roses set on thick, twisting stems that had been widening their reach for the better part of a century. Beyond the climbers came her favorites, the English roses, with their densely layered heads and sweet aroma. Vicious thorns covered their stems completely, and she had learned painfully as a child that these could not be picked but needed the shears of the gardener to separate them from the bush. Admire us, they seemed to say, but do not try to take us as your own; do not stand us in crystal vases in stuffy rooms. Gather your hybrid teas just down the path—they were grown for sacrifice with their long stems and garish blooms.

            The path led her into the topiary with its old boxwoods and dense yews trimmed into hedges, balls, and obelisks. On the far side of this strict garden, behind a hedge six feet high, was a sheltered corner at the edge of the estate’s high ground. Nestled against the ancient greenery, protected from view, was a stone bench enjoyed exclusively by Agnes. Two marble statues flanked the bench: a modestly robed Venus and her blacksmith husband, Vulcan. The spouses gazed at each other, forever longing, forever separated by the stone slab where living lovers might sit whispering between them and look out over the distant hills to the west. Agnes loved this secluded spot and came to it often to collect her thoughts or simply to dream, especially at sunset when the sky lay spread before her, shot through with vivid pink and orange. Sometimes she stayed to watch a perfect ascendancy of blue creep from the horizon to heaven’s immeasurable vault and see the first stars prick the darkening sky.

            It was on this bench that she sat immobile for hours when M. left, when her chest felt like its center had been carved out and taken away. The coward, the deceiver. Where was he now? Had she been fully replaced, and how many times over? Was he romancing another innocent maiden? Oh, but he could make her laugh. And his eyes, they looked inside her and saw what no one else had been able to find. Scoundrel! I hope he’s been lost at sea, made a slave to pirates, blanketed by coursing lava, eaten by wolves—

            Hurried steps approached down the gravel path. Agnes sat very still, listening, and wondered why she had not told Phillip about this bench behind the hedge. She had to admit that somehow she intended to test him, to see how hard he would look for her. The steps stopped momentarily. Then a voice called over the perfect silence of the late afternoon.

            “Agnes? Agnes, are you here?”

            Oh, my goodness, she thought, he is calling for me like a child playing hide-and-seek. Fearful that a guest might hear him and join in the search, Agnes rose and hurried around the hedge, nearly colliding with him on the other side. He stood smiling and clearly amused. Carefully he held out a tea cookie.

            “Another step and you would have made me drop our cookies. I brought some along for us.”

            “How very thoughtful,” she stammered, taking the proffered cookie. “You must enjoy anise as much as I do.”

            “No, I don’t like it all. Are these anise?”

            “Yes, they are Dahlia’s specialty cookies. She is rather well known for them.”

            “She’s done a good job of covering up the anise, then.” Phillip brought one close to his nose then popped it into his mouth. “Where shall we sit?”

            Agnes paused. Should she guide him back to a bench in the heart of the garden, where they might be observed and overheard by others? Or should she admit him to her private place between the gods, where he might look for her again, making that magical spot no longer a secret, no longer an assurance of solitude?

            “The view is best from over here,” she said, taking his arm. “But you must promise,” she warned, looking him steadily in the eye, “to tell no one. This is my private retreat,” she explained as they continued around, “and you should consider yourself flattered in a spectacular way to be admitted.”

            “Your confidence is safe with me, madam,” Phillip assured her as they settled themselves onto the cool bench.

            Now you’ve done it, Agnes told herself. She felt the sharp pang of having given away something before it was earned. She scolded herself, but it was too late.

Chapter 13

Phillip gazed at the deep green hills and the patchwork fields between thin lines of trees, tiny in the distance. A lone bird winged its way home across the vast sky.  Phillip took in the stone lovers on either side of him, looking first at one, then the other, and back again. “Forever separated,” he observed. “Your retreat is a place of yearning, then. And great beauty.”

            “You see why it is so special to me.”

            Phillip leaned back into his corner of the seat and arranged his arms and legs comfortably.

            “So what do you want to know?”

            “Everything you are willing to tell.” She looked at him expectantly.

            Phillip took a long breath and began. Some ten years ago an appeal had been sounded for missionaries to central India. The church wanted single, healthy males who were looking for adventure, loved God, and had a natural boldness that would allow them to talk about Christianity in a wild place among people who already had more gods than they could count. Phillip knew this was his calling. His extraordinary curiosity, which had gotten him into endless trouble since he learned to walk, could now be indulged. He would observe a totally new culture, with no one shutting up his questions or forbidding him from poking about where he did not belong. His father approved the trip as a providential solution for what to do with an intelligent son who did not seem to fit into any occupation he had tried—or even into polite society.

            The voyage had been exhilarating. For weeks he traveled, first across a stormy Atlantic, then through the enchanting Mediterranean, and on through the Suez Canal. At the Suez you knew you were entering another world, he reminisced. Passengers were told to change into their tropical dress, and a new energy ran through his travel-weary shipmates. Whether they were bound for India to make their fortune, take up a government job, or serve with the British army, a sense of eagerness gripped them all as they pushed into the Indian Ocean and made for Bombay.

            The year was 1874. The Brits had sent the last Mogul emperor packing years earlier and now held direct control over two-thirds of the country. Entrenched princes and maharajas ruled the other third in scattered states, having pledged allegiance to the crown. It was to one such state that Phillip was headed, Hyderabad, to a small mission at its southern border. He already knew that the ruling nizam was among the world’s richest men. Reports abounded of the splendor of his court, the egg-sized emeralds that decorated his throne, buckets of pearls and golden plates and clothes sewn with gold thread.

            By contrast, the mission—and the town and countryside around it—existed in the simplest way imaginable. Arriving in late April, the hottest month of the year, Phillip was stunned by the scorching sun. The land was dry and water precious as the population waited for the relief of the monsoon rains.

            “I came to reinforce a Welsh missionary who had been at his humble post for five years, the last two alone since his assistant died of cholera,” Phillip explained. “When I asked him after a few days how he stood the bristling heat, he scowled and said ‘Do you want some rain, then? Be careful what you ask the good Lord for, my friend.’ I didn’t know what to make of that at the time.”

            “We had a small chapel adjoining our rustic residence. It contained a few benches and a rough cross nailed above an altar that we draped in a piece of white cotton. Every Sunday Gregory, my taciturn superior, said a simple service at nine in the morning, attended by a changing mix of curious children and one very dark old man who told Gregory each week that he was thinking about converting. Gregory told me he was a spy for the local Hindu priest.”

            “So you made no converts?” Agnes asked.

            “Not there in Hyderabad, not while I was there. The Hindus listened to us politely but went away chuckling at a religion that relied on a single god. And one who had come to earth as a mere man with only two arms and two legs like the rest of us. Our tales were not tall enough, our holidays not colorful enough. And the local Mohammedans had no more use for us than the Hindus did.”

            Agnes asked whether he ever found out what his superior had meant about being careful what he prayed for. Indeed he had. They baked like pots in a kiln until June. Phillip was sitting in the scant shade teaching a few urchins some English from the Gospel of John, when the clouds slid over the mission. The next morning they let loose their load of water. He thought they must all drown. The hardened dirt of the mission yard was transformed into a slippery bog, and waterfalls fell from the roofs of every building. In many places the water lay ankle-deep, in others it rose to their knees. The rain continued until September, by which time he could not imagine the land ever drying out even if it never rained again.

            As the land recovered itself, Phillip could not ignore his growing restlessness. He received Gregory’s permission to travel around a great part of India, taking copious notes on the people and their customs, sharing the Bible with any who would listen.

            “Did you see the Taj Mahal?” Agnes asked eagerly. Once at her aunt’s house she had seen pictures of it through a stereoscope.

            He had, and made several sketches. He asked if Agnes knew that the emperor Shah Jahan had it built of white marble in memory of his beloved wife, who died after giving birth to their fourteenth child.

            “Fourteenth!” Agnes gasped.

            “And he himself would have been buried in a temple of black marble just across the river. Unfortunately, his third son interrupted his plans by throwing the father into prison and beheading his older brothers in order to crown himself emperor.” India, Phillip said, leaning forward, was a land of extremes. Drought and flood, excess and want, generosity and cruelty, beauty and barbarism.

            “Not a place for the faint of heart,” observed Agnes.

            Phillip was silent a moment, his brow contracted as he surveyed the deepening colors of the sky. “Maybe not a place for those with any heart at all.”

            Agnes held her breath. Now he might be on the verge of telling her why he had left. The real story, not the varnished one his father gave out.

To be continued . . . 

Episode 6: Glimpses of India and a Marriage Going Dry

 Chapter 10

Phillip came toward her and bowed modestly. “Hunting? Well, ma’m, I do love to ride, but I’m afraid it’s all a little too chaotic for my nerves—the hounds and all, the chase. It’s a fine sport for those with a thicker skin,” he laughed easily. “However, I have done a bit of hunting in my own way already this morning.”

            “Oh?”

            “Is anyone by chance missing a snake?”

Agnes’s eyes widened and she caught her breath.

“One found its way to my room and we had quite a bit of sport between ourselves when I insisted that he remove himself from the comfortable armchair that I needed to put on my boots.”

            Agnes was white, her hand over her mouth. “What happened? He didn’t bite you, did he?”

            “Oh, no. I finally convinced him that my laundry sack was a cozier place and in he went with just a little assistance.”

            “He is there now?”

            “Oh, yes, quite safe and sound. Looks like one of your black rat snakes if I had to guess—not dangerous, unless you are a rat or a vole or some such thing.”

            “Lord Phillip, I am so grateful. It got into the house yesterday and I’ve been worried sick. You were very brave to trap it.”

            “Quite easy, really. I had a good deal of practice in India. The place swarms with snakes, so one has to get used to taking the upper hand with them.”

            “Well, then, after such an adventure, I hope you would join me for some breakfast on the terrace,” Agnes offered. She had barely taken a bite of her meal before Wilbur’s entrance, and her plate was still full. Phillip smiled his consent, and Isaiah carried their breakfast out to the terrace. Swiftly with a white napkin he wiped off the water, twigs, and leaves the storm had deposited on the table and chairs.

            Phillip held a chair and Agnes took her place. She felt strangely self-conscious as she spread plum preserves over her toast. What is wrong with me, she wondered. She added a spoon of sugar to her tea, forgetting that she had already put one in. She was keenly aware that the dark coral color she had chosen to wear that morning did not flatter her as much as some others. She had not felt this prickly nervousness for years, and she did not welcome it. After all, she was a mature woman in her fourth decade. She had entertained a number of suitors and knew how to master her emotions, whatever they might be.

            However, none of those men had borne any resemblance, in body or in manner, to the one sitting across from her now. There had been the railroad tycoon twenty years her senior with a penchant for singing off-key whenever a piano was played. There was the handsome but exceptionally dull army captain from Virginia who wanted her to move south with him to his family’s tobacco plantation. There was the shy and thoughtful heir to a lumber fortune who kissed her once and, in great confusion and embarrassment, fled to St. Louis. Then there was M. She no longer thought of him even by his full name, because it pulled up in her mind his image, complete and seeringly vivid, and she did not want to remember.

            “I feel I must apologize not only for the snake in your bedroom but also for my cousin,” Agnes began. “That was a terribly rude display, but not exceptional for Wilbur.”

            “Do you think he dislikes me, or does he just hate God?” Phillip asked.

            Agnes looked up, surprised by the directness of the question. “Oh, I don’t know anyone he does like,” she returned. “But God is certainly near the top of his list of villains. I can’t say whether Wilbur hates Him or just finds the whole idea of a deity unbearably silly, along with all us poor souls who believe in Him.”

            “Well, if you enjoy doing any number of things that God has forbidden, it’s essential to shove Him into the category of the ridiculous. Then you can carry on quite freely. It’s a popular practice.”

            Phillip raised his coffee to his nose, smelled it, then took a sip. He proceeded to do the same with his eggs.

            “Do you always smell your food before you eat it?” Agnes asked.

            “Usually,” he replied. “If you don’t smell it you only get half the benefit, don’t you think? The smell of eggs with ham, of fresh coffee, well buttered toast, that’s a great part of the pleasure. If you just tear ahead swallowing everything in front of you, well, it’s all over too quickly.”

            “You make a good point,” Agnes conceded. “I will be careful to remember it.”

            Phillip looked at her earnestly—just a degree more than the way he looked at everyone—and saw that she was not laughing. “Thank you. I’ve gotten rather used to being ridiculed for ideas like that one.”

            “Well, don’t let that concern you,” Agnes reassured him. “You simply have a fresher outlook than most of us. It is a terrible rudeness as well as an ignorance to laugh at an idea simply because you are not used to it or you don’t understand it. People given to ridicule rarely learn anything of importance.”

            “Very true!” agreed Phillip, raising his eyebrows and sniffing his toast. “Which explains why—I don’t know if you agree—most people are quite unconscious of many ordinary truths that surround them.” Phillip went on to explain how it does not occur to such people to observe things and then base their conduct on those observations. Instead they follow along in the stream of what everyone else is doing and talking about and wind up with very little first-hand knowledge. Then, to reinforce this poverty, they laugh off the practices of any friend engaged in objective investigation and discount his conclusions. “However,” he drank off some coffee, “if those same investigations and conclusions appeared in print these same people would be declaring them brave and brilliant and would spend at least a week trying to apply them in their own lives.”

            Agnes laughed. “You are quite the student of human nature, Lord Phillip.”

            “People are endlessly fascinating, and you will never run out of depths to plumb no matter how long you study them.”

            Agnes poured herself more tea and wondered how many observations he was making about her. “I understand you have returned from India very recently,” she resumed. He did not reply, but watched a sparrow hop forward to grab a crumb of fallen bread. “How did it strike you?”

            “India?” Phillip held his fork and knife still and looked at his plate. “That question could require a very large answer. Most people don’t have room for it. What size answer would you like?” he asked, looking at her.

            Agnes paused as well. What a question, she thought. Who is this man? Is he rude or something else altogether? He demanded honesty from the very start. He did not allow a person the usual slow ascent; no, one immediately faced a steep climb, searching for footholds and making each step count.

            “If need be, I can be free until dinner,” she replied.

            “Hah!” he laughed. “never have I been so indulged. I would not keep you that long, however. I might run out of things to describe by tea time.”

            “Somehow I doubt that.”

            Phillip glanced at her and saw again that she was not laughing. The baying of dogs being freed to lead the hunt made him snap his head around toward the stables, where the smartly dressed hunting party launched their mounts across the wet field. They both watched until the riders disappeared behind a gentle rise, the dogs’ cries dying in the distance.

            “Hot,” he suddenly announced, returning to his plate. “So colorful it hurt.” Then Phillip described to Agnes the masses of dark-skinned, shirtless men, the gaggles of women in brilliant saris, the marketplace’s bags of orange and yellow spices, the violently green fields, the piercing blue sky. At times he longed for the refuge of a cool New England wood full of browns and muted greens, with soft beds of pine needles underfoot rather than dirt baked to a rocky hardness. But then the rain would come and they would all be standing in water up to their ankles for weeks, and then he longed for sun and dry land and clean clothing.

            “I understand that you went as a missionary. What brought you back?” Agnes asked.

            Phillip leaned back in his chair, having finished his food, and stretched out one leg. Agnes could not help noticing the outline of muscle beneath the gray pants. “There are two answers,” he confided, dabbing off his moustache. “The one my father tells people and the more honest one. With you, I somehow feel like starting with the latter.” He looked at her keenly, and his eyes sparkled like a man’s do when he is about to take a risk and embraces it.

            “You honor me,” said Agnes, looking down to cut her last slice of meat. “I myself feel that anything short of honesty is usually a waste of everyone’s time.”

            “I agree—when you are dealing with people of substance, that is. Which, of course, you are, Miss Somerset.”

            Agnes laughed. “You’ve hardly had time to find that out, have you?”

            “Not at all. My father has told me much about you. He esteems you very much. And I have observed quite a bit during these two days that tells me he is correct in his opinion.”

            Agnes cleared her throat and sat back. “Well, then, why did you leave India?”

            Phillip put down his napkin and rose to his feet. “I will tell you. Shall we meet, say, just after tea, on the bench in the topiary? I’m afraid I have an appointment just now—Ned has offered to show me his butterfly and nest collections.”

            Sitting up straight, Agnes considered her schedule. “I will be delighted to rendezvous after tea to hear the answer. Nothing could keep me from it.”

            His Lordship bowed, laid down his napkin, and ran off across the lawn.

            Agnes sat for several minutes, feeling her heart pound. Above her, a giant elm bent its wet branches over the terrace, letting occasional drops splash onto the dirty dishes. A fresh breeze blew from the north and stirred the fine hair around her face as she mused. On the west lawn, Fettles was overseeing the establishment of the croquet course, pointing out necessary adjustments and pacing off to check the distance between wickets. Through the open doors behind her, Agnes heard dishes being cleared and the quiet laughter of the kitchen staff as they hurried to make way for lunch preparations.

            Agnes reviewed the conversation that had just transpired and concluded that the Duke’s son was a singular character whom she was not sure she liked. Was he the most mature man she had ever met, or the most childish? Spearing the last of her breakfast, she rose and went inside.

Chapter 11

Lunch in the dining room that day was a small affair. The hunting party was still out, eating from hampers on the field of battle. Wilbur and Eleanor had gone to town after persuading the Duke and Lord Phillip to accompany them. (The Duke never hunted due to a violent allergy to poison ivy, which he unfailingly stumbled into whenever he strayed from manicured paths.) Nothing buoyed the Wilbur Browns so much as mixing with English aristocracy, even its displaced members. No tonic could impart to them the same glow, and the two were nearly giddy as they hunted for their necessaries in the small shops of Chesterton. Of course, no suitable merchandise was to be found anywhere in that provincial city, but even this frustration could not dim the couple’s spirits, and they bravely remarked to the Duke that they “knew how to make do.” The group took lunch in the dining room of Chesterton’s best inn, which came highly recommended by the dry goods merchant and the drugstore owner alike. “This should prove interesting,” Wilbur winked at the Duke as they entered the clean but somewhat shabby dining room set with limp tablecloths and sturdy dishes. The Duke returned from this outing thoroughly drained, but Phillip beamed, having tucked away in his mind a myriad of new observations regarding a known type, the toadying critic.

            In the meantime, a carriage bearing the last guest arrived at Brookside while Agnes shared a cold lunch with her guests in the dining room. Hearing voices out front, she excused herself and flew to the door. A young woman stepped down gingerly from a carriage and, with much relief, enfolded her aunt in her arms. The pleasure of being on solid ground almost overwhelmed the unsteady traveler. Agnes took her niece’s face in her hands. “You are paler than ever, you poor little thing.”

            The exhausted young lady was the daughter of Agnes’s sister Elizabeth. Stella favored the redheaded strain that ran through their line. Her skin was like a doll’s, perfect and nearly translucent, but with pale freckles sprinkled across her nose, a nose that seemed just the slightest bit too large for her small face. A generous mouth, large eyes of faded blue fringed with tawny lashes, and thick red-orange hair lent Stella a dramatic look more powerful than beauty.

            “I’m fine,” Stella assured her aunt. “It’s just my condition. I had not realized how difficult all the motion would be.”

            Agnes felt a wave of guilt and selfishness roll over her for urging this budding mother to make the trip from Chicago. “I am so sorry,” she groaned, putting an arm around Stella’s waist and leading her up the steps. “I am a selfish and ignorant woman. I will try to make it up to you while you are here. How long will you stay?”

            “Two weeks, if you’ll have me.”

            “Oh, not nearly long enough!” cried Agnes, and she led Stella upstairs after ordering that tea and toast be brought up. At the top of the stairs, she led her to a door and softly pushed it open. Stella gasped, forgetting her fatigue. “The mosaic room!” Years slid away and she was eight years old again, kneeling on the hearth, tracing the patterns of the Italian tiles. She remembered the Christmas she proudly gave her little paintings as gifts to her admiring family. “I like to think that my painting career started right here in this room,” she smiled, unpinning her hat.

            Tea arrived, and Agnes offered to let Stella rest, but her niece insisted that she stay.  Agnes opened Stella’s trunk and began hanging dresses in the old German wardrobe that seemed alive with its profusion of roses and birds cut deeply into the dark wood. Stella sat before a matching mirror and refastened her hair.

            This is how Vera found them as she strode into the room with barely a knock. Stella jumped to her feet and was about to grab her great-aunt in a hug when she stopped short. Vera had brought back from the hunt a generous covering of burrs, and dried mud besmeared her riding pants and jacket. She explained matter-of-factly that one of the hounds wandered into a briar patch and could not figure his way out, so she had volunteered to work her way in and lead him back, losing her footing more than once on the muddy slope.

            “Frederick of course wanted to go in my place, but as I was the smallest person in the party it only made sense for me to do it,” Vera explained. “It was really the highlight of the whole outing, besides Mr. McMeed dismounting and chasing the fox on foot when he had completely lost confidence in the dogs.”

            “Did you catch the fox?” Stella asked.

            “We had him cornered nicely, but Mrs. McMeed went into such a wail about how darling he was and what about his family somewhere, so no one could shoot.”

            “Did anyone explain that I brought that fox in expressly for the hunt?” asked Agnes. “That he was raised for this purpose and had no one waiting at home?”

            “It would have been useless. Mrs. McMeed was too overwrought. I don’t know what she imagined a hunt was all about.” After kissing Stella carefully, Vera excused herself to change.

            Alone again, Agnes fell to asking Stella question after question about her life in Chicago, her daily routine, her health, and her husband William. She noticed that her niece’s voice stuck a bit in places and made her doubt the exclamations about how fine life was. Agnes leaned back in her chair and studied the face before her.

            “What’s wrong, Stella?”

            After a short silence the young woman walked to the window. The afternoon sun turned her hair to flame and made her squint as she looked out across the brilliant lawns and gay flowerbeds.

            “It’s so beautiful here, Aunt Agnes. I already know that I won’t want to leave.”

            “And I know that I won’t want you to go. But I sense that your wish to stay will have more to it than just your love of Brookside. Stella—you don’t need to pretend about anything with me.”

            Stella stared outside as though looking for the words somewhere just out of view. She worked her hands, sliding one over the other. Agnes waited. A squirrel scolded from a limb just outside the window and distant laughter drifted in from somewhere. Both women became aware of a world busy with itself as they occupied this little room, concentrated upon one life. Stella drew a breath. “I feel sometimes like I am . . . disappearing.”

            Haltingly she let out the story of the past two years in disjointed pieces interrupted by frequent reflection and apology. William was an excellent husband. Her mother had been right about him, and he worked hard to advance their fortunes. But sometimes it seemed too much, staying ten to twelve hours a day at his business in the stockyards checking on a rumor of disease or meeting with railroad men about shipments or dining privately with investors. But it was not as though she found herself with nothing to do in his absence—quite the contrary. She had been catapulted into a world of dinner parties and teas and ladies’ clubs and supervision of a household. Although she had watched her mother perform these duties, she found that she was unprepared for the rigors of seemingly endless social obligation. At every turn she had a dozen questions and her mother was not there to answer any.

            Stella recalled how she was the girl with her hair always coming undone and her hands dirty, a girl to be found either high in the branches of an apple tree or standing at an improvised easel painting a wildly colored landscape. Now she never ran, never painted. With the baby coming, time would be scarcer still. Some mornings, when she sat down at her little desk to answer a small pile of invitations and inquiries, she imagined packing a bag and disappearing, just for a while, to a place where she could breathe and stretch her legs and sketch the countryside.

            “Do you feel that William loves you?” Agnes asked.

            “Oh, yes, I know he does. He apologizes all the time for being gone so much and says it won’t last forever. But he is ambitious, Agnes. That’s something that drew me to him, I think, that energy. For a time it was directed toward me, though, and now . . . “

            Stella went to her bag and took out an envelope whose worn edges showed that it had been opened and closed many times. From it she drew a paper heart printed with dark roses and trimmed in a thin green ribbon that laced its way around the edge. She handed it to Agnes, who took it carefully and read:

Let me Dwell in the light of thine eyes,

Let me find a sweet home in thy heart!

For my soul like a wild bird flies,

To linger wherever thou art—

As night gives place to the day,

And darkness before the sun flies,

So my sorrows will all melt away,

When I live in the light of thine eyes.

            “This was his valentine to me two years ago, four months before our wedding. And this year . . .” Stella stood with her palms up, empty. “I know I am being selfish, but I can’t help it—this isn’t what I wanted, this isn’t what I thought married life would be.”

            “What did you picture?”

            She had pictured happiness—a river of happiness that they would float down, each day more blissful and refreshing than the last. He would cover her with kisses each morning and she would spend the day painting pictures for him to praise when he returned in the evening, pulling her into his arms and whispering how much he had missed her. They would go to dinners and balls and be admired as the couple most in love. Children would come along to be purred over and taken on picnics every weekend. They would pack the happy brood into a buggy and bump along under leafy trees, past exuberant spring meadows, drunk with the richness of loving family life. Stella smiled with embarrassment and sank into a chair across from her aunt.

            Agnes cocked her head. “In this tableau there are no runny noses or soggy picnics or clothes that smell like the stockyard?”

            “Naturally!”

            “Stella, you know that I am not laughing at you.” She handed back the precious valentine. “I think you might simply need a rest. Can you stay with us a while?”

            Stella stared at the paper heart. She would write to William and see. Maybe she could. She did not admit to her aunt that she had brought along in the bottom of her trunk a small set of paints and brushes and far too many sheets of heavy paper for just a two-week visit.

To be continued . . .

Episode 5: A Cloud Descends at Bedtime, Followed by an Awkward Breakfast

Chapter 8

The rain had nearly stopped and thunder only mumbled in the distance when the guests finally said good night to one another. As Agnes passed Grandma Brown’s room, she was surprised to see a light still shining and hear quiet laughter. The door was ajar, so she knocked once and put her head in. In the corner, seated on either side of a small table, sat Grandma and Mrs. Bairnaught, on whose lap the Bible lay open to the book of Psalms. Grandma was dressed for bed, with a cap pulled over her snowy hair. A lamp of exquisite yellow Venetian glass bathed that end of the room in a delicious glow. The ladies, who had been reminiscing together, smiled expectantly at Agnes.

Mrs. Bairnaught, about twenty years younger than Grandma, was something between a friend and a daughter to the venerable old woman. The two were brought together in the course of Mr. Bairnaught’s friendship with Agnes’s father, meeting for the first time at a Christmas ball thrown at Brookside. By then Grandma was widowed for the second time, and for the Bairnaughts, hopes of children were growing dim. The two ladies took to each other immediately. They became friends and confidants and traveled far and wide together while the gentlemen pursued fortunes for both their households.

            “Come in, Agnes, come in,” cried Grandma Brown. “I’m sorry I was such a bore at dinner. Everything was splendid, dear girl, and you are beyond beautiful this evening. I remember that necklace, I think. Do sit down for a moment.”

            Agnes drew up a chair up. “Father gave this necklace to Mother shortly before he died,” she explained. “He bought it in Spain for her birthday but couldn’t wait to give it to her, so he put it on her pillow the night he came home. Every time I wear it I remember that night and how excited we all were to have him back, especially Mother.”

            “We were just talking over old times ourselves,” said Mrs. Bairnaught. “There’s nothing old women enjoy more than recalling moments from all the years gone by.”

            “Memories are a treasure,” admitted Agnes. “They are delightful to recall with a friend and good company when one is alone. Grandma, how are you feeling?” she asked, taking the matriarch’s knobby hand.

            “I’m feeling quite wonderful,” she said. “The good company is doing wonders for my rheumatism, which is lucky since the doctor’s tonics are useless. You have assembled a delightful mix of guests, my dear, and so interesting.”

            “Tell me,” said Mrs. Bairnaught, leaning forward as far as her dumpling figure allowed, “what do you know about the Duke’s son? A handsome young man, for sure, and so cheerful, don’t you think?” Mrs. Bairnaught liked nothing better than romance, and sought to fan it wherever she thought it might be kindled into a good marriage.

            “I know almost nothing,” replied Agnes. “He returned from missionary work in India last month. He’d been there several years, I believe, and it sounds like it did not turn out well. He is single and seems to enjoy riding. He is also looking to buy a dog. That’s all.”

            “Did he tell you that—that he wants to buy a dog?” asked Mrs. Bairnaught.

            “I heard him tell Wilbur that as we were discussing where to put the greyhounds before dinner. Lord Phillip asked if he could sound out Wilbur’s opinion on Italian hounds, and they went off to the kennel together, thank heavens.”

            “Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry about the dogs,” said Grandma. “I told Wilbur that dogs had no place on a visit here, but you know how he is. He simply told me that I was old-fashioned. It bothered me all the way here, but I finally made up my mind not to worry about it because I had such confidence in your ability to handle any situation. And so you have.” Grandma’s face relaxed, and Agnes admired the soft wrinkles of her cheeks.

            “You know,” resumed Mrs. Bairnaught, “I’m surprised Lord Phillip said he was shopping for a dog.”

            “Why is that?” asked Agnes.

            “Well, I was talking with the Duke earlier today as a few of us walked the gardens. He told me a very interesting story about his son.” Mrs. Bairnaught proceeded to recount how Lord Phillip, at the age of 16, had just dismounted from his horse when the two family Dobermans dashed up to him, snarling. They did not recognize him at all. Whether it was the scent of wild lavender from the hill he had rolled down, or that he rode back in just his breeches, his other clothes stuffed into a saddlebag on that warm day, no one knew. But the dogs charged him, knocking him into an excavation. They proceeded to maul him until the stable master and two other men managed to beat them away, but not before they had inflicted lasting damage to the boy’s face and hip.

            “The Duke said that Phillip learned you can never trust dogs, even your own. It was years before he would go near one again.”

            “How terrible!” exclaimed Agnes. “Then I wonder why he said that to Wilbur.”

            “He probably said it to rescue you,” said Grandma. “I bet Wilbur followed him to the kennel like a lap dog himself, didn’t he?”

            “Yes, he certainly did.”

            “How long has the Duke lived here?” asked Mrs. Bairnaught.

            “Oh, a few years now. You know he has the property just two miles up the road, Fellcrest. He bought it when the old patriarch, Mr. Snowden, died and none of the children wanted it. The place had slipped into near ruin by then, so the Duke got it for next to nothing, I hear. He has absolutely transformed it.”

            “But hadn’t you ever met Phillip until now?” asked Grandma.

            “No, he was always abroad with one thing or another.”

            “What became of the Duke’s wife? An American, I believe,” put in Mrs. Bairnaught.

            Agnes recounted how, when the Duke was a very young man back in England, the daughter of his Latin tutor proved quite irresistible. The Duke fell in love with her and she with him. They kept it a secret for four years, until he was on his own and had his inheritance, but their engagement created a scandal. There were the usual rumors of impropriety and the worst sin of all, marrying below one’s station. They got married anyway and shortly afterwards moved to New York City, where she had relatives, after the Duke sold off everything in England.

            “That is a great deal to give up,” put in Mrs. Bairnaught. “I believe dukes are at the very top of the ladder in English aristocracy. But why is his son called Lord Phillip? Shouldn’t he be a marquis?”

            “Oh, I understand it was New York society that mistakenly gave him that title,” explained Agnes, “and it stuck. The Duke was not interested in preserving the trappings of English peerage on American soil, so he never corrected them. They had two daughters and one son, Phillip—which makes him the heir. When the wife died, the Duke bought Fellcrest. He said he never liked the city and he certainly lost little time moving to the country. He says it reminds him more of England, except for our winters.”

            “I can’t blame him,” said Grandma. “I ran out of patience with cities a long time ago. When I was a girl I thought they were so exciting. I loved nothing better than a trip to Philadelphia or Chicago or New York. Now all I see is pandemonium, the jostling of cabs and the smell of horses, all that noise all the time, everyone with something to sell you, and not a corner to rest in. Do you know, I haven’t been to Philadelphia in almost a year, and it’s only a few miles down the road. Which points to the fact that I am old. And an old woman must get to bed, my dears.”

            Agnes and Mrs. Bairnaught rose quickly and helped Grandma into bed. “Shall I leave the lamp on just a bit, Grandma?” asked Agnes, tucking her in.

            “Yes, my peach, just a bit. I often wake up in the middle of the night these later years.” Grandma turned her head on the large pillow to face her granddaughter. Agnes thought how small her grandmother looked in the great mahogany bed, just a bump in the sheet, really. “Without a light I’m sure I won’t know where I am and wake up the whole house by tumbling down a stairway,” she chuckled.

            “Goodnight, Grandma. I’m so very glad you came.” Agnes leaned over and gave her grandmother a kiss. The ladies left, closing the door softly behind them. Agnes turned to Mrs. Bairnaught.

            “Does she seem well to you, Mrs. Bairnaught?”

            “Yes, for the most part. Of course, her rheumatism gets a little worse every time I see her, but that’s to be expected. But Agnes,” whispered Mrs. Bairnaught, placing a hand on her arm, “your grandmother seems anxious about something. I asked what might be troubling her, but she only said it’s a matter she needs to talk over with you.”

            Agnes frowned.

            “Just be sure to find some time alone with her,” advised the older woman, patting Agnes’s arm. “I can’t keep Mr. Bairnaught waiting any longer. Good night, my dear. You looked absolutely stunning tonight.”

            Agnes stood alone in the upstairs hall. Behind each door came the muffled sounds of people preparing for bed. She crossed her arms and gripped her elbows, pondering Mrs. Bairnaught’s words as she headed for her own room. Passing Lord Phillip’s room, she stopped to listen. She heard his voice softly singing, and it sounded as though he must be pacing back and forth. The melody stirred her heart though the words were inscrutable—an ancient, swaying hymn in the language of the Hindus.

Chapter 9

The morning rose up clear and cool. Flower stems hugged the ground, beaten down by the night’s rain, and droplets hung heavy from every leaf. After the warm stuffiness of the previous day, the guests were delighted to find the windows thrown open and all the promise of the day riding in on the morning breeze.

            As Agnes descended the grand staircase to breakfast, she glanced through a clear pane of the stained glass window that dominated the landing. There on the sodden lawn stood Wilbur, putting Empress and Napoleon through their paces, alternately patting their heads and shaking his finger. He almost looked relaxed. She was reminded that some people’s hearts warm more to animals than to humans. Why was he so awful to people, she wondered.

The only kind thing she could remember him doing was when he bought her a basket of pink roses one summer many years ago while he was visiting Brookside. A ferocious summer cold had kept Agnes in bed, making her miss a ball she had bought a new dress and shoes for, and she was inconsolable at her bad luck. The gift had the effect of puzzling more than cheering her as she tried every which way to understand why a spiny character like her cousin would do such a lovely thing. She suspected at last that he had bought the arrangement for some other young woman who had refused his advances, and he then took the ready excuse of Agnes’s illness to dispose of the unwanted bouquet. But she never knew for sure.

            As she entered the dining room, guests had already begun serving themselves from the platters spread across the sideboard, and Isaiah was refreshing cups of coffee and tea. Fettles stood just outside, conferring with the stables staff on the timing and details of the hunt. The dogs knew that something was afoot and could be heard barking expectantly from the kennel.

            Agnes took a sweet roll and cold ham while Isaiah poured her tea at the head of the table. Mr. and Mrs. Bairnaught sat down with crowded plates beside Agnes, and the mister set to slurping his coffee with relish. Agnes carefully cut open the warm roll and buttered it. “I hope you both slept well.”

            “Not at all,” replied Mr. Bairnaught without completely raising his head. “But it’s my wife’s fault. She didn’t read to me. Stayed up too long chatting and visiting. I was asleep when she finally came to see me, but I woke up all through the night.”

            Agnes looked at Mrs. Bairnaught questioningly and tried to conceal her amusement.

            “It’s true,” smiled Mrs. Bairnaught, patting her husband’s shoulder, “I neglected him shamefully. I’ll do better tonight.”

            Mr. Bairnaught was a man of few words but great gusto, one who enjoyed life with both hands, as his wife was fond of saying. He measured just below average height, partly because nature had denied him the benefit of a neck, and remained, even at 65, powerfully built. His features forbid nonsense, and Agnes could not remember hearing him laugh. Nevertheless, a more solid friend the family never had. Both he and his wife were devoted to Agnes’s mother and father, and they proved invaluable to her when her parents passed away within months of each other.

            Mrs. Bairnaught loved her husband as the barnacle does its ship, traveling with him wherever he went. She barely came up to his chin and, before her lovely shape widened with the years, she was often mistaken for his daughter as they walked arm in arm through public places. Now with her two chins and rounded shoulders, she was recognized as a wife, and, though she never admitted this, it had smarted for years when people stopped making the mistake.

            “You are in the habit of reading to Mr. Bairnaught?” asked Agnes.

            “Every night. It helps us both to sleep and we learn so much. I can’t tell you how many wonders we have discovered between book covers over the years.”

            Agnes pictured this couple in their nightclothes, propped up against a bank of pillows.  The gates of foreign cities opened before them as they looked with fascination at the strange landscape of an undreamed-of place “And what are you discovering now?”

            “Emerson,” answered Mr. Bairnaught, looking directly at Agnes as though to emphasize the importance of the name. “Rereading his piece on self-reliance. Brilliant man, but I’m not completely comfortable with his message. Transcendentalist, you know.”

            “Oh, dear, more philosophy,” said Mr. McMeed, who was just taking a seat. “I don’t know why, but any discussion of it stirs me up so.  One can hardly eat a meal while talking about it.” His linen was, as usual, exquisite this morning, and his chin shone from a meticulous shave. His wife sat beside him in a yellow dress that could not be ignored.

            “I know what you mean,” agreed Mrs. Bairnaught, “but his views are very popular. May he rest in peace.”

            “He died?” asked Mr. McMeed.

            “Just a month or two ago, I believe.”

            “But what was wrong with him?” asked Mrs. McMeed.

            “Well, I don’t know, age probably took him.”

            “I mean his thinking.”

            Mr. Bairnaught briskly stirred more sugar into his coffee. “Caught the philosophical bug from his brother, I understand, who contracted the infection in Germany. Brother came home and convinced Ralph that the miracles of the Bible probably never happened. From there it was a short leap to putting God aside. Rely on your ‘inner self’ for truth. Dangerous idea, really.”

            “Well everyone has his own ideas about what’s right these days,” remarked Mrs. McMeed, looking wide-eyed at everyone in turn. “I feel that’s all right, as long as you are sincere about what you believe. It all comes down to sincerity and everyone getting along, don’t you think?”

            The group was relieved from answering by the appearance of Wilbur, who strode into the dining room with a loud “Good morning,” and, without sitting down, raised a cup and saucer toward Isaiah for coffee.

            “Good morning, Wilbur,” said Agnes, “I saw you outside exercising Empress and Napoleon. You must have worked up an appetite. Do help yourself to the sideboard.”

            Wilbur glanced at the gleaming platters. “Thank you, Agnes, I don’t eat breakfast. Coffee is all that’s needed in the morning. Eating before noon slows down the body and the mind.”

            “Indeed!” cried Mr. McMeed. “Then you should have the advantage in this morning’s hunt since we are just finishing stuffing ourselves with this delicious fare.” He nodded appreciatively at Agnes.

            “Ah, the hunt,” smiled Wilbur, walking to the window while balancing his coffee. “Yes, I heard the hounds. But isn’t this a little late for a hunt? I should have expected you all to have dashed off hours ago.”

            “Group decision last night,” returned Mr. Bairnaught. “After a late evening it’s no use promising to get up at five in the morning.”  Heads nodded around the table. “We voted to go out at a civilized hour and just see what we could find.”

            Wilbur grunted and said he would not be joining them on that “archaic adventure.” It was a practice, he explained, that had long outlived its utility. Chasing down a fox or hare just to show you can do it, along with a troop of horses and a pack of hungry dogs, no, not the sport for him. He returned his cup to the table and informed Agnes that he and Eleanor wished to make a jaunt into Chesterton to pick up a few things they did not find in their room, and he hoped her man could see his way to getting a carriage up in about an hour. “And if anyone would like to join us, you are welcome,” he added, with an uninviting look around the table. Agnes assured him that she would make the arrangements.

            Wilbur headed for the door and stopped. “But here’s an idea,” he exclaimed. “Who would like to wager on the outcome? I’ll put money on the fox. Anyone for the hunters? We’ll have Fettles hold the wagers for us and see who comes out on top at the end of the exercise. Shall we say twenty dollars?”

            Wilbur’s eyes had taken on an unwonted shine. “Anyone? Of course, we could open up the croquet tournament to some speculation and put a little flavor into it also, couldn’t we?” He looked cheerfully at Agnes. The breakfasting guests stared at him without speaking.

            Just then Phillip walked in, smoothing his hair with one hand and buttoning his waistcoat with the other. He stopped just inside the silent room and looked around uncertainly.

            “Look who’s here,” exclaimed Wilbur. “Now I take you to be a betting man, Lord Phillip. I was just suggesting that we enliven today’s hunt with a little wager on who might emerge the victor. Or even lay odds on the old croquet tournament. Are you in, old man?” Then, putting a finger to his lips, “Oh, wait, I forgot! You’re a man of God, aren’t you? I suppose gambling lies outside your field of allowable activities.”

            Phillip replied coolly, “It’s true that I have gambled in my life, but never with money. I’ll have to pass, ‘old man.’”

            Wilbur’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Indeed! A man who never gambles with money. Well, what stakes do you prefer? Commodities? Loaded pistols?”

            Phillip, who had headed to the sideboard to investigate breakfast, turned around, smiling. “Are you proposing a dual?”

            “I wouldn’t dream of taking such advantage. It’s simply that of all the things one might take chances with, a simple wager on the outcome of a fox hunt is about the safest way to enjoy oneself.” Wilbur’s eyes sparkled malignantly, but his voice carried a tune of pure merriment.

            “So, then, no one?” he asked once more, surveying his confused audience. “Well . . . .” He nodded carelessly toward Agnes and left the room.

            Mr. McMeed waited as long as he could before breaking the spell. “Well, that’s awfully rough.”

            “Now, Daniel—“ his wife warned.

             “Well really! Agnes goes to all this trouble to show us a fine time and he comes along like a Turk with a toothache and spoils it. I guess that’s what comes from being modern—maybe he’s a Transcendentalist—no respect for people’s feelings or anything else, and you can say anything you damn well feel like.”

            “Those are the nihilists,” Mr. Bairnaught corrected.

            “Whatever he claims to be, he’s a cad for sure. I know he is your cousin, Agnes, and I apologize, but it’s a shame. And then to think of making wagers on the outcome! What’s wrong with him? Well, let’s clear the air.” Mr. McMeed dropped his napkin on the table and rose. “Who’s up for hunting?”

            “Here, here,” affirmed Mr. Bairnaught, raising a finger into the air.

            “I wouldn’t miss it,” exclaimed Vera, whom no one had noticed in the pantry doorway, eating a lemon ice pilfered from the kitchen.

            With perfect timing, Fettles stepped into the dining room to remind those joining the hunt that they would be departing on the hour. There was a sudden pushing back of chairs as some hurried off to change and others to enjoy the freshness of the morning from the terraces or gardens. Amid the tumult, Lord Phillip quietly layered his plate with eggs, cold meat, toast, and raspberries.

            Agnes remained in her chair and silently took in his firm shoulders, the squared line of his chin, and the way his hair fell over his collar. She spoke up, “Lord Phillip, are you hunting today?”

            He looked at her and smiled broadly, his features showing no trace of the barbed conversation he had just endured with her cousin. His eyes shone with a kind of innocence and gratitude she had not seen in a grown man. It was as if no armor covered him, and he stood before her unprotected.

To be continued . . .