Episode 4: Lord Phillip Arrives in the Nick of Time

Chapter 6

“So whom do we have here?” Agnes asked as brightly as she could, eying the pacing dogs. She could not help admiring their jackets, which covered their backs and bellies and buckled smartly to one side. One wore a sumptuous shade of green silk and the other an exquisite red with a gold fern pattern through it. Their bodies were startlingly lean, and they displayed such intense alertness that it was hard to imagine they ever slept.

            Eleanor spoke first, adjusting the dark, gauzy scarf around her shoulders. She was a tall, spare woman with abrupt cheekbones and a wide, thin mouth. She wore her dark hair pulled tightly back and pinned in an elaborate knot behind her head. Eleanor seldom smiled unless she was describing one of the couple’s latest coups such as a wildly successful dinner party that the governor had attended or the addition of a new wing to their Renaissance revival mansion outside Philadelphia. This not being the moment for such stories, she remained somber and introduced the dogs.

            “Surely you received our wire? About bringing Empress and Napoleon.” Eleanor’s deep-set eyes fastened on Agnes.

            “No, I’m afraid not,” Agnes replied. She doubted there had been any wire. These two were not above bald-faced lies and were unlikely to go to the trouble of warning her of their planned imposition.

            “Oh, yes, we sent word a week ago, wasn’t it, Wilbur, that we had just acquired these darlings and could not possibly leave them behind. Greyhounds—purebreds, of course—are such sensitive animals, you see, they certainly would have felt abandoned.” She bent down and took each dog’s chin in her hand and kissed their noses in turn. Her eyes shone with maternal solicitude.

            “The question at hand seems to be,” Wilbur pronounced, “one of accommodation.” Like his wife, Wilbur was tall, lean, and angular. At one time he could have been thought handsome. But Agnes noticed his lackluster pallor and a new touch of gray—he looked almost gaunt and certainly older than the last time they had met.

            Beyond doubt, he was her least favorite relative. Wilbur was the only son of her father’s half-brother, Uncle Thaddeus—he was not a Somerset. Grandma’s first husband was the flamboyant James Simon Somerset, who went down with his ship somewhere between Liverpool and the New York harbor. Grandma and James had been married just a few shining years and had produced one child, Benjamin, Agnes’s father. A dainty and charming lady, Grandma spent only three years a widow before attracting the attentions of Aloysius Brown, a man of even greater wealth than James. This marriage was a short and unhappy one for the bride, who found a few weeks after moving into her husband’s mansion outside Philadelphia that Aloysius could not be content with just one woman—this man who wooed her like his very life depended on it was soon making new conquests and sleeping in other beds. Within three years his deeds caught up with him. The husband of one of his lovers came to visit Aloysius one day and shot him dead where he sat in his library chair. All parties were satisfied to report the death as an accidental suicide, the grievous result of careless pistol cleaning. Grandma made a special trip down to the Schuylkill River and threw her wedding ring in the day after its purchaser went into the ground, and for the rest of her life wore the band her first husband had put on her finger.

            Grandma had borne one son to Aloysius Brown, an engaging boy named Thaddeus, who took after his mother in face and faculties. He grew into a lively and generous man, well loved by everyone who met him. Sadly, he died at the age of 45 in a mountain-climbing accident, shortly after the death of his wife. (Some said his fall was no accident but rather his way of escaping the overwhelming and undiminishing grief of his wife’s absence.) He left behind one child, Wilbur, a taciturn youth just emerging with a mediocre record from Harvard College.

            Wilbur showed an early affinity for forging connections among society’s top rungs. At an exclusive ball for Boston’s best, Wilbur noticed Eleanor; her chilly grace and regal bearing drew him to her. She, from a humbler background than Wilbur, was also on the climb, and so their ambitions meshed. They married and took their place alongside Grandma at Montefiore, the Philadelphia mansion built by the extravagant Aloysius. The Italianate monstrosity was the pride of the Brown family, and since Aloysius had secretly amended his will to leave it to his son Thaddeus and his issue—Wilbur—Grandma could not refuse the new couple entry. They allowed Grandma to remain, of course, but Agnes supposed that the dear old woman stayed as far away from these two in the great reaches of that residence as possible and was thus able to preserve her good cheer, for which the grand old lady was legendary. She would probably see more of them over the course of this week than she did in a month back home.

            Wilbur looked significantly at Agnes and raised his brows slightly.

            “We’ve made up the walnut room for you both, and I do hope you’ll like it,” Agnes offered.

            The Browns exchanged a dark glance. “The dogs, Agnes,” said Wilbur. “Your man here—“ indicating Fettles with a slight toss of the head, “tells us that you have some rule against dogs in the house. Which I would understand if we were bringing in mud-caked hounds fresh from the hunt, but as you can see, Empress and Napoleon are cleaner than most people’s children.”

            “I’ve not doubt of that,” agreed Agnes. “They are splendid. But they are also dogs, dear Wilbur, and Fettles was quite right about my stricture against animals in the house. But we do have the kennel and the stable, which my people keep exceptionally clean and well-aired.”

            Wilbur looked down at his prized dogs, then back at Agnes. “I’d sooner sleep in the stable myself than put these two out there!”

            “I can prepare as many stalls as necessary,” muttered Fettles.

            Eleanor turned. “What’s that?”

            Agnes spoke up. “Wilbur, I wish I could budge on this, but it’s simply impossible. You know I’m allergic to anything with fur, and I assure you that Empress and Napoleon will have no complaints about their accommodations.”

            Eleanor took up the cause, explaining that the sensitive dogs slept in their owners’ rooms (as anyone would imagine, her tone conveyed). “What will they think if they find themselves at night alone in some rough, drafty stall? And there is their health to consider—these are delicate animals.”

            Agnes offered to assign one of the stable hands to spend the night with the dogs if they thought that was necessary. She assured them that in June the nights did not get so chilly, and the dogs would find a bountiful supply of hay to snuggle into if they wished. Wilbur continued to foam at these suggestions, and the debate could have continued for hours if just then a young man had not ridden up to the house, unnoticed until his horse was nearly beside the group. The man slid nimbly from the saddle and stood holding the reins, looking at them all amicably. The ride had left his sandy hair windblown and himself and his horse breathing hard.

            “Good afternoon,” he announced at length, smiling with the ease of one who was among friends he had known for years. The smile was irregular— a full moustache almost hid the scarred left corner of his mouth—but nonetheless charming..

            “Good afternoon,” said Agnes, looking at the newcomer expectantly. When he remained cheerfully silent, she ventured, “Lord Phillip?”

            “Oh, indeed!” he replied as though just reminded that he was among strangers. “I am the Duke’s son. So very thoughtful of you—are you Miss Somerset?—so very thoughtful of you to have invited me.”

            “It is a great pleasure to have you with us,” answered Agnes, extending her hand.  “I would like you to meet my cousin Wilbur Brown and his wife Eleanor . . . and their companions Empress and Napoleon. This is Lord Phillip Aspen, the Duke’s son newly returned from India.”

            “India?” asked Eleanor, tilting forward. “How exotic.”

            “Import export?” asked Wilbur.

            “Not exactly,” answered Phillip. “Missionary to the heathen.”

            “Indeed!” remarked Wilbur. Wilbur did not believe in God any more than the greyhounds did, but he seldom betrayed this in public. “Fascinating work, I imagine.”

            “Oh, yes. It keeps one humble, that’s for sure. I just didn’t seem to be much good at it.  Greyhounds?” Phillip asked, looking down. “Fine animals, these. Do you race them?”

            “Not yet,” answered Wilbur. “We only just acquired them two weeks ago. We haven’t quite decided whether we want to put them on the track or not.”

            “Well, they will no doubt do you proud no matter what you decide.”

            “Right now we are trying to decide where to put them.” Wilbur smiled tightly.

            Agnes began to twist her skirt and glanced at Lord Phillip. For a moment no one spoke.

            “Then you are probably on your way to the kennel,” declared Phillip. “I say, would you mind if I accompanied you? I’m considering a dog myself, possibly the Italian variety, and I’d like to get your opinion if I could.”

            Wilbur was clearly torn between continuing to insist on better lodging for the dogs and the opportunity to be treated as an expert by a titled Englishman. His vanity won out, and he and Lord Phillip, accompanied by the confused dogs, walked slowly toward  the kennel as sluggish drops of rain began to fall. Isaiah the footman, just arrived from stowing the Browns’ luggage, hurried forward to show them the way.

Agnes watched Phillip’s back as the men retreated, noticed his head cocked toward Wilbur at an attentive angle, and thought she noticed a barely discernible limp on his left side. She then turned her attention to Eleanor, who was saying something about dreadful weather, and let her into the house. Agnes presented her to those in the parlor, where Mrs. Bairnaught befriended the new arrival with compliments on her dogs and questions about the latest renovations to the mansion in Philadelphia. Mrs. Bairnaught, an old friend of the Somersets, did not care a twig about Eleanor’s projects but knew that someone had to adopt the unpopular woman so Agnes could unwind from the scene that had just taken place. Agnes thanked her warmly with a look and sat down to enjoy the last of the tea. She hoped her face did not reflect the worry she felt over keeping peace in her home without sealing two of her guests in the cellar.

Chapter 7

The storm that had threatened them all day broke loose after dinner. Torrents of water washed the north windows while brilliant gashes of lightening announced thunderclaps that made the china shake. After dessert, Grandma retired to her room with her good friend Mrs. Bairnaught, who would help salve Mrs. Brown’s rheumatism and read to her. The damp air tormented Grandma’s hips and back, evidenced only by the matriarch’s sitting a bit too quietly through dinner. Wilbur, as the self-appointed male host for the evening, led the gentlemen who wanted cigars into the study. The ladies, along with those men who preferred to take their coffee and cognac free from tobacco smoke, followed Agnes into the music room. Vera, succumbing to loud urgings, seated herself at the old Chickering, whose polished rosewood with brass medallions of lute-playing cherubs glowed a warm welcome in the lamplight. Mr. Schmidt took up a position beside the instrument in happy anticipation of hearing his companion play. His face wore a suffused glow as if to say, “You will see that she is marvelous.”

            Eleanor, spectral in a narrow black gown, drifted from the guests and stood before a dark window, staring anxiously at the night. Her fragile dogs were out in the kennel, probably quaking beneath a mound of straw as the thunder cracked above them. But going to comfort them was out of the question until the storm slackened. Agnes called to her. “Eleanor, won’t you join us? Vera has agreed to play a Gloria, and we need your soprano to balance Mr. Schmidt’s bass.” Agnes had no idea whether Eleanor could sing a note. Reluctantly, Eleanor left the window and approached the piano.

            “I don’t sing, I’m afraid. But I have heard that you sing like an angel, Agnes. I’m sure we would all like to hear you and Mr. Schmidt in a duet.” Her rigid face kept the words from sounding like a compliment.

            Vigorous approval rang from the group, so Agnes took her place beside Frederick. Vera’s fingers began dancing over the keys of the proud old Chickering, and the singers raised their voices in an interwoven melody that softened everyone in the room far beyond the ability of the cognac.

            “How about a round?” asked Mrs. McMeed, putting down her coffee as the song ended.

            “Oh, indeed,” put in the Duke, “Those are delightful! I should call in Phillip—he needs to learn some. But I doubt I’ll get him away from a good cigar.”

            The rest agreed to rounds, and so they sang a set accompanied by the unpredictable percussion of the thunder. When their energy flagged, the Duke toasted the pianist and mused aloud, “How is it possible that this woman has eluded some man’s net? Mr. Schmidt, I wouldn’t let her get away if I were you.”

            Frederick reddened and Vera threw back her head and laughed. She rose and took her friend’s arm. “My dear Frederick already values me more than he ought, I assure you.”

            “A good friend makes the best spouse,” intoned Mr. Rockwell from his deeply upholstered chair. “Friendship first. It’s the thing that lasts until the end. But these
days—” he paused to remove a crumb from his moustache—“a husband must keep a tight rein. Modern women look for that insubstantial thing called romance and then busy themselves with all kinds of mischief rather than tending to their duties, that’s what I see.”

            Abram Rockwell had been the business partner of Agnes’s father and still ran the major portion of their “financial empire,” as he referred to it, speaking of themselves in the same Olympian terms that might describe Carnegie or other captains of industry.  He spoke with his coffee cup held just below his chin, the saucer very properly just beneath the cup. His gray hair ran in two swatches on either side of his rather pointed head. Mr. Rockwell’s nose and ears gave evidence of the natural law that these features continue to grow into old age, while the head does not, giving them ever-increasing dominance over a man’s appearance.

            Mrs. Rockwell, a stout woman never guilty of chatter, sat across the room from her husband, her large arms straining the seams of her dark satin sleeves. Her coarse gray hair was pulled back in a simple style, but such was the hairs’ vigor, it maintained a sort of tension around her head, making one wonder if it might spring out of its pins at any moment and arrange itself as it pleased. Mrs. Rockwell had once admitted to Agnes that she secretly wrote letters to the New York legislature regularly advocating property and voting rights for women. The Rockwell’s daughter and only child, Sarah, submerged in a complicated gown of rich blue silk, sat beside her mother, watching. Suddenly Mrs. Rockwell decided to speak.

            “Abram, have you been reading that Frenchman Proudman, or whatever his name is?”

            Her husband stared. “What do you mean? To whom are you referring?”

            “I think you mean Proudhon,” volunteered Vera.

            “A mixed-up fellow, that’s what,” continued Mrs. Rockwell, swelling further with indignity. “And those are just the kind to get the biggest following, aren’t they? ‘Man is three to a woman’s two,’ whatever that means! And our brains are smaller. Well, what of it, I say. A cat’s is smaller than a bull’s, but which would you rather have around the house?”

            Mr. Schmidt put a hand on Vera’s arm. “You can be sure that Mr. Proudhon never met a woman of your wit or ability, my dear. Otherwise he would have had to reverse all his theories on the nature of women.”

            Mr. McMeed, as though feeling this was a subject too grave to address while seated, rose and set his cognac on the piano. He grasped a lapel with one hand and cleared his throat. Although he had entered the second half of his own personal century a few years earlier, he maintained the lean form and dark hair of a much younger man—favors he occasionally complained about as standing in the way of the respect his years deserved. He was always clean-shaven, and his hair framed his upper face in short curls. Simon McMeed had entered local politics at an early age as a representative in the state capitol. A nephew to Mr. Somerset by marriage, he had faithfully represented the interests of his uncle in the chambers. A personable, articulate, and often outspoken man, Mr. McMeed quickly rose into a position of power and had recently run for the office of governor only to lose narrowly. Having learned valuable lessons from the experience, he now had his sights set on Washington, and his wife had practically started packing for their relocation into the rarefied atmosphere of Potomac society.

            “Proudhon and his chaps seem to be spreading like a fungus, don’t they?” McMeed pronounced. “Anarchists and atheists. They are all the fashion.”

            Mr. Schmidt’s face darkened a shade. “As bad as he is, he’s better than that scoundrel Marx.”

            “Must we choose between them?” cried McMeed. “Any man who declares ‘Property is theft’ can hardly be recommended.”

            “Yes, he subscribes to most of the Socialist rot,” admitted Frederick, “but at least the Frenchman allows the farmer his land and the craftsman his tools. If the Marxists had their way, none of us would be left with a thimble to call his own.”

            Mrs. McMeed, an otherwise pretty woman whose eyes always looked too wide open, said, “Well, let’s hope that nonsense stays in Europe. We don’t need it coming over in the hold of a ship like the plague.”

            “Margaret, I’m afraid your caution comes too late,” laughed Agnes. “It’s here.”

            The Duke frowned and waved his cognac. “I have no taste for Proudhon myself or his petty bourgeois sermons. This was all covered before him by Britain’s own misguided Godwin, anyway. Haven’t you noticed that the French are forever running about claiming to have invented things that have been kicked around for decades?”

            “They did invent the guillotine, I believe,” put in Mrs. McMeed.

            “A perfect example!” exclaimed the Duke. “Monsieur Guillotin simply copied devices that were already chopping off heads in England and around the Continent. But the French made the greatest use of the thing, to be sure. Barbarous race, if you ask me. And worse still—totally unoriginal.”

            “Except for fashion, of course,” Eleanor corrected. Everyone knew (because she made sure to tell them) that she went to Paris every other spring and ordered her gowns while Wilbur tried his luck at the casinos.

            “Indeed!” Thunder rolled above the house as though punctuating Vera’s exclamation. “The French concoct the silliest costumes imaginable and then export them, trying to make us look ridiculous. As soon as we buy them and struggle into them, the illuminati of Paris change their minds and we are all instantly out of style. Isn’t that so, ladies?”

            “Speaking of which,” warned Mrs. Rockwell, “I hear the bustle is returning next season.”

            “You can’t be serious!” gasped Agnes.

            “How does one sit down in those things?” asked the Duke. “I’ve never understood it.”

            “And I hear they will be bigger than ever,” the young Miss Rockwell chirped.

            Mrs. Rockwell put her hands to her face. “Heaven help us. Here we are, fighting for the vote, and they’re making us look more absurd than ever.” At which her husband shot her a dark and suspicious look.

            “Who’s absurd?” asked Lord Phillip, casually entering the lively group, his hands in his pockets.

            “Ah, Phillip,” declared the Duke, “you should have been here for the singing.”

            “We heard it all the way in the study,” smiled Phillip.

            “So why didn’t you come and join us?” asked his father.

            “I was rather busy trying to defend the better part of Christian history from Wilbur’s flaming arrows. I’m afraid I had to give it up at last; logic and mere fact held no sway.”

            Phillip’s father threw his arms behind his back and began to make apologetic noises to Eleanor about his son’s frankness as Agnes laughed.

            “Oh, no” Eleanor declared straight-faced, “please don’t feel you need to apologize. Many others, I assure you, have failed to breach his walls on that subject.”

            Phillip turned to Agnes, who was gently clearing her throat in an effort to suppress her laughter. She sat on a burgundy chaise longue, her russet skirt spread on the cushion and her hair gleaming in the gaslight. Creamy lace covered her shoulders, and around her neck shone her mother’s topaz necklace, a gift Mr. Somerset had brought back from Spain. Agnes smiled back modestly at Lord Phillip, then lowered her eyes as his gaze remained fixed. He stood this way, seemingly unconscious of staring, even after she struck up a conversation about the future of fashion with Mrs. Rockwell and her daughter. At a fitting point in their dialog, she sought to soothe the awkwardness with, “Maybe Lord Phillip would tell us his view of fashion. He has such interesting—”

            But turning to where he stood, she found that he was gone.

To be continued . . .