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 . . .
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