Episode 11: The Longest Day

Chapter 20

The tournament resumed with Sarah Rockwell challenging Agnes. Halfway through their game, Sarah knocked Agnes’s ball aside with such gusto that the hostess was unable to recover, and the jubilant girl won by two strokes. This victory brought her to the championship round against Lord Philip himself. Agnes could predict the outcome and was hard-pressed to watch this final match from the shade of the trees, as the young woman tiptoed and danced through the course, swinging her mallet idly and laughing at everything.

            “She acts quite smitten, doesn’t she?” murmured Vera. Agnes had not noticed her aunt standing beside her and dropping the last of the smoked oysters into her mouth. “Who knows, they might make a good pair.”

            “You can’t be serious!”

            Vera opened her eyes at Agnes. “Why not? He’s available but without an occupation, she has loads of money, and old Abram could probably offer him a position in the firm.”

            Agnes crossed her hands and stared at her aunt. “That is so calculating for a romantic like yourself. What about the fact that she is a silly, inexperienced girl and he is a fascinating, deeply curious, man of the world?”

            “Oh, don’t you know a lot about his Lordship! I am here to tell you, my dear, that most men happen to prefer silly, inexperienced young ladies. They don’t have to compete with them in wit or in stories to tell over dinner.”

            Agnes turned her gaze to the course. Lord Phillip was waving Sarah graciously on to the next shot, the sun shining on his tousled hair and white shirt, now opened at the neck.

            “This one is not like most men.”

            “Why, because he was a missionary? Because he sniffs his food before eating? These things may make him odd, but not fundamentally different. But he is a good judge of character—he seems to detest our Wilbur.”

            “That was quite a scene, wasn’t it?” returned Agnes. “And what about your Mr. Schmidt? Wasn’t he gallant? Now surely you consider him a rare man.”

            “Frederick? He’s absolutely one of a kind. The dearest man on earth, and not in the least threatened by your strutting cousin or a competent woman. I know you know how unusual that is.”

            “But why do you string him along as you do if he is such a treasure—which I agree that he is? You must know that he would marry you in a moment if you even hinted at the possibility.”

            Vera popped a grape into her beautiful mouth and thought. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m afraid.”

            “Of what?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “He spoils you to tag along the way he does with no assurances. Have you ever considered that one day you might lose him?”

            “It occurs to me every day, and how much I should hate myself if I let it happen. So what are we to make of it?” Vera shrugged. “Maybe I’ll beg him to marry me tomorrow.” Vera took Agnes’s arm and pulled her back to the crowd gathered to cheer on the last competitors. Mrs. Rockwell stood anxiously with one arm through her husband’s, giving her daughter advice of the most unworkable kind, while Abram kept reproaching her in good humor to let the child play the game. The Duke and most of the men were pulling for Phillip and doling out taunts about the honor of all the gentlemen riding on his performance, threatening him with shunning and a ruined reputation in the unthinkable event of his defeat.

            Sarah sized up the positions of the brightly colored balls. She stood a good chance of finishing with one stroke. She had, however, already displayed an uncanny grip on the fact that this game was as much about strategy as skill, and not willing to invest all her chances of winning in one shot, she moved to the left and aimed for Lord Phillip’s ball, which was only a yard from her own. Her ball hit his with a sharp clack, rocketing it neatly out of bounds. A great cry arose from the gentlemen, who threw up their arms and hung their heads, refusing to watch the young woman’s final and perfect shot that drove her ball snug against the stake.

            The Rockwells led their daughter off, exclaiming over the highlights of the tournament. The rest of the guests drifted away to relax and refresh themselves. Grandma Brown, uncharacteristically out of sorts and complaining of headache, had left the festivities just after lunch.

            By now the sun sat high in a cloudless sky, and the time of day had arrived when the birds stopped flying and all the animals of the ground rested in the shadows. Even the insects took a few hours off from their activities, and a bright quiet settled over the grounds. Only the occasional bark of a hound, sent up as though to ask if he were alone in the world, troubled the stillness.  

            Agnes sat on her bed. Slowly she removed her shoes and tossed them aside. With apologies she had bowed out of the trip to town with Vera and Eleanor and lay down now to rest her head, which, as on most warm, bright afternoons, had begun to throb. Marie drew the drapes and laid a damp washcloth over her mistress’s forehead. Agnes breathed deliberately, thankful for the hushed and darkened room and the chance to be alone. She tried to clear her mind and rest it from the colliding images of the last three days. Some things had gone splendidly; others had not. This was to be expected. Breathe in, breathe out. What would Mother have done differently? Would father have been pleased? These questions lurked just below the surface of her mind. Sometimes she pulled them out and analyzed them openly. But when she had finished and put them away, her parents still hung close by like chaperones discreetly keeping watch. Breathe in, breathe out. She lay very still and gave herself over to the shifting kaleidoscope in her mind: his smile, his hair in the sun, the bright white shirt rippled by the breeze, his stepping back and laughing, the way he leaned on his mallet and observed almost everything . . .

PART II. When Autumn’s Fruit Does Fall

           

Chapter 21

Agnes awoke with a start. How long have I slept, she wondered, snatching the washcloth, which had grown warm, off her forehead. She looked to the golden hands on the French mantel clock—only twenty minutes. Had she heard something? Strangely anxious, she sat up just as a knock sounded on her door.

            “Agnes!” It was Wilbur’s voice, urgent and restrained.

            She went to the door in her stockinged feet and opened it. Wilbur stood there ashen, leaning in. “You must come. Something’s wrong with Grandma.” Without pausing to put on shoes, Agnes ran with him to her grandmother’s room. She stopped short in the doorway. In the armchair where her grandmother had sat and talked with her just two nights ago an ancient woman now slumped. Though dressed like Grandma Brown, this woman looked shrunken and leaned heavily against the side of the chair. Her left arm hung limp toward the floor and the side of her face sagged frightfully. The poor creature raised her confused eyes to Agnes and moved her mouth, but no sound came out.

            “Grandma!” The word caught in Agnes’s throat. She ran to her grandmother and knelt beside her, stroking her face and bringing the useless arm into the matriarch’s lap. She searched the old eyes questioningly, but found in them only frightened surprise as they moved from Agnes’s face to Wilbur’s, to the objects around the room.

            “What happened, Wilbur?”

            “I don’t know,” her cousin cried. “I came to see her as I’d promised, and I found her like this.” Wilbur pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his grandmother’s mouth.

            “Have you called for a doctor?”Agnes asked.

            “No, I came straight to you.”

            “Tell Fettles to get Doctor Bingham immediately. And tell Marie I need her. Find Mrs. Bairnaught and tell her what has happened. Oh, they are such old friends.” Agnes squeezed her grandmother’s useless hand.

            “Should we lay her down first?” Wilbur asked.

            “No, I don’t think so. Hurry, Wilbur.”

            Wilbur hesitated, then ran from the room. Agnes took Grandma’s face into her hands and stroked her fine, white hair. Tears rolled silently down Agnes’s cheeks as she prayed in a whisper for a miracle to bring her grandmother back to her. Marie hurried in, and the ladies pulled a light blanket from the bed and wrapped the old woman in it. Then Agnes sent Marie off for hot tea and brandy. As the maid dashed from the room she almost collided with Mr. and Mrs. Bairnaught, who were entering at a run.

            Mrs. Bairnaught drew in her breath and, letting go of her husband’s arm, crossed the room. She wrapped her arms carefully around the small, still body in the chair. “My dearest,” she whispered into her friend’s ear.  Her husband drew up a chair for his wife, and she lowered herself into it. “Oh, what happens to us?” she asked, tipping her head to one side as she looked into Grandma’s face. “What tricks does Nature play on us old women?” Grandma stared at her bosom companion, her confidant of forty years, with a fixed look of incomprehension. Mrs. Bairnaught rubbed Grandma’s fingers in her own stiff hands, and Agnes wept as she watched them.

            Word spread quickly through the great house, and the guests began converging on the busy bedroom, talking in low tones with Mr. Bairnaught, who had stationed himself at the door. The drapes on the west windows had been closed against the harsh light of the late-afternoon sun. But the northern windows stood open, and a mild light filled the quiet room. Fettles arrived at last with Doctor Bingham and a nurse.         

            The doctor examined Grandma with a practiced hand and a knowing eye. After completing a short battery of observations, he straightened and sighed, placing his tools back into his bag. “Your grandmother is suffering from apoplexy—a stroke,” he announced. “Her left side is paralyzed at the moment, but that could change. You might find that she improves shortly, or she may sink deeper still. The stroke probably occurred several hours ago. Did you notice anything wrong with her this morning? Did she have an emotional shock of any kind?”

            Agnes reflected. “She seemed more tired than usual after breakfast. Her normal energy was gone, and she complained of a headache after lunch.”
            She turned to Wilbur, who shook his head and shrugged.

            The doctor grunted. “We can’t know what is happening in her brain. Strokes are mysterious things. Keep a close watch on her. Make her comfortable and see that she does not roll out of bed. Massage her limbs periodically to keep the blood flowing. The real challenge will be getting her to eat and drink in the next few days. Don’t worry about that until tomorrow morning. For now, put her to bed with plenty of pillows and just let her rest.”

            A confusion of voices in the hall made everyone turn to see Vera enter, followed by Eleanor and Mr. Schmidt. Vera looked at Grandma, then the doctor, then Agnes. Mr. Schmidt took her arm and steadied her as a wailing Eleanor rushed past them to the old woman.

            “Agnes,” said Vera, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” She turned to Doctor Bingham. “What can we do, Doctor?” She looked tenderly at Grandma Brown, now nearly lost beneath the folds of her blanket, slumping ever lower in the large chair. “We wait, don’t we?”

            “We wait,” agreed the doctor. “I will leave Nurse Woolsey with you, and I’ll return tomorrow to check on the patient.” The stout man bent forward, three fingers tucked into his waistcoat pocket, and pressed grandmother’s shoulder in his thick hand. “Mother, I will see you tomorrow.”

            The gentlemen followed the doctor out, and the ladies got Grandma into her nightgown and laid her in bed. Outside the still-open windows the birds had begun their evening songs. Gentle rays of sun lit the edges of the drawn curtains and snuck in to light a narrow path across the crimson rug.

            Nurse Woolsey and Eleanor took the first shift, as Vera and Agnes tiptoed out and closed the door behind them. Vera followed Agnes to her room, where the weary hostess changed her dress and put on shoes. She told Vera everything that had happened since waking from her nap.

            “This is unbelievable,” she said, as Vera helped fasten a long row of buttons down the back of her dark evening dress. “I barely recognized her.” Tears started up in her eyes again. “And who knows how long it will be before she can tell me what she had wanted to say to me!”

            Vera hugged her niece from behind and rested her head against hers. “Don’t worry about that now, dear. Our minds cannot handle so much at once. Whatever it is will come out in time.”

            Agnes put her face in her hands and stood still for several moments. Vera waited, lost in her own reflections. “This is a sad ending to our week,” sighed Agnes.

            “Now, Agnes, it isn’t an ending yet,” Vera reproved her. “Grandma may be better by morning. Don’t start talking as though she’s past all hope.” But her optimism rattled dully in Agnes’s ears—she knew enough to tell that her grandmother had slipped too far down a sheer slope to climb back up by morning.

            A knock came at the door, and Vera went to open it. Phillip stood in the doorway, and Vera waved him in. He came to Agnes, took her hands in his, and raised them to his breast. He continued to hold them, looking into her face silently. In his dark eyes she saw a sympathy that surpassed words.

            “What can I do?” he asked.

            “Nothing, I’m afraid. I just need a little time to collect myself.”

            Phillip inclined his head. “Whatever I might do for you, tell me. Will you?”

            Agnes nodded. He released her hands reluctantly and left.

            Agnes looked at her aunt. “I feel I need a walk in the garden. I’ll see you at dinner?”

            “You certainly will.”

            Agnes clasped Vera’s hand in parting and saw beyond her, out the window, how bright the sky was still. She remembered absently that it was the summer equinox, the longest day of the whole year—a day when the sun holds itself above the horizon and refuses to sink from view until the last possible moment.

To be continued . . .

Episode 10: Commotion on the Croquet Course

Chapter 18

By the middle of that sparkling morning, Wilbur and his bride had not exchanged a syllable since the day before. No sounds issued from the walnut room except routine noises of people dressing, opening windows, or clearing their throats in preparation to say something they decided against. Eleanor knew that her husband had no intention of joining in the croquet tournament, and she had so little interest in him at this point that she did not even consult him on his plans for the day. For her part, she resolved to play croquet with all the enthusiasm she could kindle, although on any other day she would have found this an excessively athletic activity and beneath her dignity. Wilbur watched his wife pin her hair and spray cologne around her regal neck as though she were alone in the room.

            He straightened his cuffs and bent to wipe several flecks of dust from his gleaming boots. He had to talk with her, but she was a stone when she wanted to be.

            “Look here, El,” he finally blurted, “you can’t go on like this in company. People will notice. I can tolerate your ridiculous silences when we are home, but in public this behavior is out of the question.”

            Eleanor added some powder to her imposing nose.

            “You won’t intimidate me like this, you know,” he continued. “I do as I see fit. All you’ll accomplish with this infantile display,” he warned, coming closer, “is to arouse suspicion about our manners and our marriage. Is that what you want?”

            With a last look at all sides of her perfected countenance, Eleanor left the mirror and picked up her hat, arranging its dull ribbon with perfect equanimity.

            Unwilling to cede victory by losing his temper completely, Wilbur tugged at his waistcoat, straightened his narrow frame, and announced evenly that she could damn well do as she pleased, it was no concern of his. He would be taking Empress and Napoleon out for a run—whom, he took time to point out, she seemed to have forgotten all about in her self-indulgent tantrum of the last two days.

            At this she shot him a burning look and pursed her lips tighter still. Her husband snatched up his hat and strode from the room, concentrating all his will to keep his hand from slamming the heavy door behind him. His long legs carried him quickly down the stairs, through the dining room, and out onto the terrace, where he bristled at seeing Grandma Brown, still sitting and watching the morning bustle. Seated beside her and looking like a great, dark monument by contrast was Mrs. Rockwell, accompanied by her insubstantial daughter. Wilbur did not hesitate but cut across the cool flagstones toward the kennel.

            “Wilbur!” called Grandma Brown with a stern ring.

            Wilbur halted and turned stiffly.

            “We need to talk. Today.”

            “Of course, Grandma. I’ll look for you this afternoon, eh?”

            Mrs. Brown nodded without a smile and watched him scamper away.

            “Your grandson is very devoted to his dogs, isn’t he?” ventured Mrs. Rockwell.

            “My grandson is a fool.” The remark stood like a frozen sheet between the ladies, stark and unwieldy. Mrs. Rockwell searched for a way to continue the conversation around it, her daughter watching keenly to see what her mother would manage.

            “I’ve known many men who could wear that title,” she offered after a moment. “My own Abram tries me to the very limit at times—Sarah, you know this already—but he has a good heart. His problem is that he cannot see ahead, not in the grand scheme. He is wonderful with business, but there is much more to this world than business.” She sighed.

            “Your Abram,” observed Mrs. Brown, “is a jewel. He has a heart of gold, just as you say, and that outweighs most faults in a man.”

            Sarah spoke up. “But courage is important, too, don’t you think, Mrs. Brown? I can’t abide a man who is not brave.”

            Both ladies looked at the young thing in surprise. “You make a good point, my girl,” admitted her mother. “As long as you are not referring to silliness like duels or hunting grizzly bears with short knives or that sort of thing. But bravery of the soul, that is an admirable quality in a man as well as a woman.”

            “And harder and harder to find,” observed Mrs. Brown. “My advice to you is, don’t hurry”—pointing a cautionary finger at the girl—“take your time to find a worthy man. For it is true that kindness without bravery is useless, and bravery without kindness brings disaster.”

            The ladies watched Wilbur lead his dogs from the kennel and, to their surprise, head straight back toward them. He stepped up on the terrace, keeping the leashes short on his eager greyhounds, and smiled.

            “I just want to ask your pardon, ladies, if I seemed rude a moment ago. It was not intended.”

            Grandma said nothing, so Mrs. Rockwell spoke up. “I am sure that a man in your situation has a great deal on his mind.”

            Wilbur’s contrite smile fell away. “What do you mean?” he asked flatly, glancing at Grandma.

             “Why,” Mrs. Rockwell began uncertainly, “a gentleman of affairs such as yourself surely has much to keep track of even while taking some time away as we are. I know my Abram can never completely leave his work behind.”

            Wilbur looked unconvinced. He pulled the dogs closer with a short jerk and mumbled his appreciation for her understanding. With a short bow, he left them.

            Mrs. Rockwell leaned toward Mrs. Brown. “Did I say something inconvenient?” she asked. She appealed to her daughter. “What did I say to him?”

            “You said nothing improper, Mrs. Rockwell,” Grandma assured her. “Pay no attention to my grandson. He is a bundle of nerves, and has every reason to be.”

            Mrs. Rockwell, confused, chose to simply observe that it was very decent of Wilbur to return and express his apology.

            “You may think me an impossible old woman,” replied Grandma, “but I can no longer abide illusions. Don’t think too well of my grandson, please. He only came back because he wants something from me and can’t afford to leave me irritated. However, since he is by nature and long habit unavoidably irritating, he would do better to simply keep his distance.”

            “Look,” cried Sarah, “I believe they are starting the tournament! Are you coming, Mother?”

            “Soon, my dear. I’ll come along with Mrs. Brown as soon as we can convince ourselves to leave this pleasant spot.”

            Sarah grabbed her parasol and nearly ran across the lawn, her yellow hair bouncing in the bright sun.

            “Oh,” observed her mother, watching the girl go, “What truth in those words, ‘A youth of frolics, an old age of cards.’” *

Grandma gave a soft snort of agreement, and the two women sat in silent reflection as the rapidly rising sun warmed their backs and chased away the morning’s shadows.

           

Chapter 19

A call went up from the croquet course, summoning the guests to the field of battle. The players were quickly converging to match skills and vie for the grand prize, a rendering of the rose garden that Stella had agreed to paint for the occasion.

            Fettles stood before the spirited congregation, struggling to get their attention in the open air. The butler clapped his thin hands together twice and launched into a thorough explanation. Players would draw from matching numbers from a hat, and the winner of each of these pairs would toss his number back into the hat to be paired with another winner, and so the competitors would be winnowed down to the last two standing. Referees were stationed along the course and would have the final word in all disputes. Those not participating in the tournament were asked to please refrain from entering the field of play or picking up any balls that went astray.

            As he concluded, Mrs. Rockwell arrived helping Grandma to the chairs on the shady edge of the neat, sunny course. Mrs. Bairnaught was already seated and fanning herself, ready to cheer her husband to victory.

            Agnes drew the same number as Eleanor, which she saw as a mixed blessing. While Wilbur’s wife was the last person she would have chosen to play against, she hoped to pick up some clues about yesterday’s conversation as they made their way through the wickets. The coveted position of playing against Phillip had gone to Mr. Schmidt, and Agnes told herself that she would just have to stay in the game as long as possible on the chance that she and the missionary might face each other eventually.

            Eleanor’s studied elegance worked against her on the croquet field, and Agnes surpassed her easily. Agnes slowed her progress at the fourth wicket in an attempt to decrease her partner’s embarrassment. She had to admire the woman’s concentration and honest effort at a game she clearly had never played. Added to this handicap was the presence of her husband standing silently in the shade, offering no encouragement, as the dogs panted on either side of him. Nearby players, seeing Eleanor’s difficulty, offered comprehensive advice as to stance, swing, and aim, but although she nodded and applied herself with seemingly good intent, her ball moved only a few feet, and seldom in the desired direction.

            Halfway through the course, Agnes cheerfully lied, “I think you are doing marvelously for your first time playing.”

            Eleanor dabbed her face. “Well, at least I am making an effort. Some people with no good excuse prefer to stand in the shade and smirk.” She shot a narrow look to the sidelines.

            “Wilbur, by chance?”

            “Well, he’s never one to join in any activities of a competitive nature when he’s not sure to excel.” She paused and seemed to reconsider. “Well, for the most part.”

            “He abstained from the hunt but made it clear that it was on philosophical grounds,” Agnes recalled.

            “Rubbish.” Eleanor took a swing in the air, tried again, and sent her ball lolling just beside the wicket. “He didn’t want me to participate in this game either, that was quite plain, but I know better how to conduct myself in company.”

            “I do appreciate your joining in, Eleanor,” Agnes encouraged. “He does seem a bit more on edge than usual, if you don’t mind my making an observation,” she added, taking aim to move her ball around a small depression.

            Eleanor glanced at her. “Does he? Well, he has always been high strung. Very capable, you understand, but high strung. That is often a trait among the elite, I understand, as in thoroughbreds. But you know, Agnes, you have done very well for yourself without a husband. They are a complication in life. Quite necessary if one is to really ascend through the layers of society. Still,” she added in a low voice, “I do envy you sometimes.”

            Agnes stood staring at this impossible woman, wondering how to respond. A sudden commotion, however, removed all possibility of continuing the conversation.

            Tearing across the lawn came Empress and Napoleon, their legs a blur, their necks outstretched, in single-minded pursuit of two rabbits that bounded over the croquet field in a mad effort to reach the shelter of the forsythia grove. In the pandemonium, Mrs. McMeed lost her balance and fell onto Mr. Schmidt, bringing them both down in a heap. At the very same time, his back to the chaos, Lord Phillip was in mid-swing, aiming to bring back his ball from a nasty knock-away by his opponent. On the upswing, his mallet caught Napoleon, who was just rounding Phillip in pursuit of his zigzagging prey. He struck the dog squarely in the chest and sent him flying backward several feet to land on his back. Phillip, thrown by the unexpected impact of his mallet upon the racing dog, staggered backward and only barely kept his feet.

            Wilbur and Eleanor ran shouting to the dog’s side and sank down beside him. Alone, Empress followed the rabbit into the thicket. Napoleon’s breath came in short gasps, and except for his labored breathing, he lay completely still, his eyes wide open in surprise.

            “What in God’s name were you doing?” demanded Wilbur, glaring up at Phillip. He laid both hands on the dog’s ribcage as though holding it together. The players formed a ring around the scene.

            “I did not realize—” Phillip began. “I was not expecting your dog to be on the course.”

            “Everyone else saw what was happening! What’s wrong with you, anyway, Your Lordship?” Wilbur sneered. “Not the sharpest knife,” he muttered.

            Agnes stepped forward, clutching her skirt. “Wilbur, how dare you!”

            “No, no,” said Phillip, putting a hand out, “it’s quite all right, Agnes. Let me answer your cousin’s question. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Well, let’s see—apparently I expect to play croquet on a croquet course. I also, strange as it might seem, would not dream of bringing animals with me to visit the relatives, uninvited. I feel a good deal of gratitude to my hostess rather than an urge to embarrass her and condescend to decent people at every opportunity. I’d say that is what’s wrong with me if you want to know.”

            Wilbur had risen and stepped forward, hands clenched, but Mr. Schmidt inserted himself. “Gentlemen, let us not try the patience of these good people with a scene we will, none of us, wish to recall. Wilbur, it’s natural to feel concern for Napoleon, but one can’t deny that Lord Phillip is quite blameless in this accident.”

            Meanwhile, Ned had been conducting his own examination of the dog, who was by now sitting up and breathing better, although shallowly. “Sir, your dog is well,” he pronounced matter-of -factly. Everyone turned to look down at man and dog. “He’s just had the wind knocked out of him. Now, he surely is bruised and will be hurting for a few days, but he’s not damaged for long.”

            By now Empress was trotting back from her adventure holding one twitching rabbit in her pointed jaws, looking satisfied and quite unaware of the dozens of burs caught in her coat. Wilbur grabbed her trailing leash, handed it to Eleanor, and scooped up Napoleon. He stepped close to Phillip and breathed, “I don’t know who you are really or what your game is—“

            “I could say the same of you,” Phillip whispered back.

            Wilber paused and squinted into Phillip’s eyes. “There is no game,” he said, and hesitated again as though waiting for something. “I’m willing to forget this for Agnes’s sake.”

            “Then you should,” Phillip counseled. “And I’d keep those hounds out of the way if I were you. For your sake.”

            With that Wilbur and Eleanor headed for the kennel to lavish their charges with tender care and a thorough grooming while Isaiah and Ned set to work quickly to reestablish the course. Lunch appeared, and everyone took a short break to calm their nerves over cold chicken, oysters, melon, and other delicacies suitable to a summer afternoon that had suddenly grown very hot indeed.

To be continued . . .

---

* Alexander Pope

Episode 9: A Wine Crisis Averted and a Graver One Simply Postponed

Chapter 16

Agnes took a moment on the terrace to catch her breath. Phillip had slipped away to enter by another door and thus avoid any raised eyebrows at their entering ensemble after such a long absence. Looking through the French doors to the dining room, Agnes saw the heirloom candelabras blazing on the main table and sideboard, and prisms sparkling in small circles on the chandelier above. Hunting scenes and still lifes hung against the red and gold wallpaper, giving the room a rich and permanent look. The table was set with the family’s gold-trimmed ivory china and complicated silver, all freshly polished. She swelled with pride at her family, at what her father had achieved, at the fine things her mother carefully collected, and the beautiful experience she could now offer her guests. She felt deeply happy to be a Somerset, honored to carry their traditions forward in her own hands.

            She tiptoed in and went straight to the kitchen. There she found Fettles deep in conversation with Dahlia, who was trying her best to ignore him into disappearing. They glanced up as she entered the too-warm but deliciously scented room.

            “Ah, there you are!” exclaimed the butler with an arch look. He was clearly waiting for her to explain her tardiness, but when no excuse came, he continued.

            “There is a problem, ma’m. Three bottles of Chateau Plessy are missing—poof!” He motioned with his fingers that something had suddenly turned into nothing. “This leaves us without enough to serve during the second course. And I have a good idea what happened to them.” Fettles turned to the cook.

            “It’s all nonsense,” Dahlia protested, her sleeves rolled back on her sturdy arms. She stirred four sauces in rapid succession then motioned for an assistant to take over. “He thinks my nephew, the new boy, is to blame, but I know him, and he’d never do any such a thing.”

            “Madam,” said Fettles, turning to Agnes. “He was put in charge of the wine cellar just last week against my better judgment. All the wines for tonight were there at the time.”

            Agnes picked up a buttery pastry from a pile beside the stove and smelled it. “I doubt we will solve this mystery tonight. The question is, what will our guests drink?”

            “Precisely,” returned Fettles.

            “Don’t we have anything else that will do?”

            “We have an inferior claret that is similar but certainly not up to the mark. Aside from that, there is nothing. Even with that, there’s nothing.”

            “Well, we seem to have no choice but to follow the advice of the wine steward at Cana,” Agnes observed. “Serve the Plessy on the first couple of rounds, then substitute the other. By then, with any luck, our friends will not be able to distinguish between claret and apple cider.”

            “And Fettles,” Agnes added as she turned to go, “the dining room looks marvelous. It is just as I’d hoped.”

            Unable to keep his starch under this shower of appreciation, Fettles cleared his throat and excused himself to double check the seating arrangement. Agnes took the back stairs to avoid any entanglements with her guests and flew to her room, where she found Marie laying out the sapphire silk gown they had chosen for this special evening.

            Despite her hurry, Agnes stopped to gaze at the shimmering dress spread across the bed. She had ordered it from the City just for tonight, and it had arrived only yesterday. Agnes had put it on immediately so Marie could make adjustments in the little time left, but by a miracle, it fit perfectly. Tonight the tiny black beads that trimmed the wide neckline twinkled in the lamplight. Agnes admired the cut of the dress, with dark vertical piping that would flatter her figure. She loved how the yards of deep blue silk gathered themselves up at intervals into two rows of black rosettes, each with beaded centers. Suddenly she had misgivings.

            “Marie, do you think it’s too much?”

            “What do you  mean, Miss Agnes?”

            “Too much for me, for the occasion.”

            “If you mean too much beauty, how can that be? This is probably the finest dress I’ve ever touched. And you get to wear it tonight and be the most beautiful woman in the world.”

            Agnes laughed and let Marie help her out of her day dress. She hastily freshened herself, and, with Marie’s help, worked her way into the subtly twinkling gown. They agreed on a simple upsweep for her hair and then earrings only, with no necklace to distract.

            The hostess and her guests formed a glittering congregation at dinner, the ladies in their best gowns and the gentlemen displaying their finest linen. Conversation rolled easily back and forth across the table as they consumed generous servings of soup, roast pork, new potatoes, and fish. Their wine glasses were continually refreshed course by course, so that by the time dessert and sherry were served, everyone felt on the very friendliest terms with everyone else. No one noticed the wine substitution, or at least they gave no sign of it. Agnes watched Wilbur and Eleanor closely throughout the meal, but they betrayed none of the anxiety expressed earlier in the garden and gave every sign of enjoying themselves as much as they ever could.

            Of course, the natural centerpiece of the evening’s chatter was Lord Phillip’s recent adventures in Asia, which Mrs. McMeed eagerly inquired about shortly into the first course. Phillip, impossibly handsome in black and white, with his neatly combed hair already beginning to stray along one cheek, finished his mouthful of iced grapefruit and looked knowingly at his father. To Agnes’s eye, his look said “Don’t worry, I will be careful.” Phillip then regaled the company with the same tales he had told to Agnes, minus unsavory descriptions of the famine or any reference to a beautiful, desperate young woman.

            “So,” put in Wilbur when Phillip seemed to be finished, “I am not clear on why it was you left.”

            The Duke adroitly stepped in. “Neither am I,” he smiled, leaning forward confidentially. “I had hopes he might make a career of good works among those poor Mohammedans and Hindus, but here he is again, the dear boy. But with that climate, I can surely understand. Disease everywhere, drought one month and monsoons the next—it doesn’t seem a place for civilized people, after all.”

            “I would have needed to be made of sterner stuff,” Phillip concluded. His eyes met Agnes’s with a sensation that was almost physical. How many times had she caught him looking at her that evening? But this time he did not look away and she had to reluctantly break the connection by inviting Grandma Brown to tell them (a propos of other cultures) about her impressions of Paris when she went there on her first honeymoon so many years ago.

            After dessert, the guests adjourned to the drawing room, where Agnes arranged herself beside the fireplace as her guests settled back with cups of steaming coffee. With only a few glances at her notes, she delivered her History of Brookside. She led her listeners from its construction by her great grandfather Phinnaeus—who had made a small fortune in coffee after the colonists patriotically switched from tea—through the family’s ups and downs across the decades and the tumultuous years of the War Between the States, up to a tender conclusion with Agnes’s account of the deaths of her dear parents and older sister in the years just past. Aside from Grandma Brown, who went quietly to sleep in the first few minutes of the recitation, not a female eye was dry by the end of the tale. Mr. McMeed could be heard sniffing audibly in a far corner, and Mr. Rockwell, feeling so many memories stirred, had to blow his nose several times. Agnes’s finish was greeted with loud applause and hearty commendations, and many hugs were exchanged all around.

            It was late, and the party soon retired to their own rooms, leaving Agnes to quietly congratulate the staff, still busy in the kitchen, on a job well done. She felt the fatigue that had been building over the last few days. The presentation over, the grandest dinner of the week a success, she allowed herself to slip into a wonderful sleepiness anticipating the comfort of her bed. She headed across the thick, blue oriental in the foyer toward the grand staircase. As she did, the smell of pipe tobacco met her nostrils. She turned her steps toward the library, where a lamp was burning low, and looked in.

            There he sat, a book open on his lap, the lamp beside him just bright enough to read by. Phillip pulled at the pipe thoughtfully and took no notice of her.

            “Madam.” A voice from behind startled her and she spun around. Fettles stood apologetically in the gloom. “Did you wish to start the croquet tomorrow at ten or eleven?”

            “Eleven.”

            “Very good.”

            The butler disappeared as silently as he had come, and Agnes wondered as she had so many times if he ever slept.

            Phillip was looking at her appraisingly. “A wonderful evening, Miss Somerset,” he said, rising and taking the pipe from his mouth. “If you will allow me, you are both an exceptional hostess and a talented writer.”

            “Oh, you are much too kind, Lord Phillip,” she blushed as she drew just inside the doorway.

            “Not at all. You almost had me crying, and I hadn’t even the pleasure of knowing the people in your story.”

            “It did bring out some emotion, didn’t it? I was surprised myself.”

            “Tell me something,” said Phillip, laying his book aside and motioning her to a chair. They both sat down, he settling comfortably into the leather cushions and she erect on the edge of hers. “Is it true that you have been managing Brookside for almost six years now by my calculation?”

            “Yes.”

            “Incredible! You would have started as a mere child, then.”

            “You flatter me. A child in understanding, yes, but not in years. But indeed I have learned a great deal since then, largely through my mistakes.”

            “Haven’t we all?”

            “What have I interrupted?” she asked. “You were reading when I came in.”

            Phillip lifted the large, dark volume toward her.

            “Ah, Tales of the Arabian Nights. You are an adventurer through and through, I believe,” Agnes laughed softly.

            “No more than you, I would wager.” Phillip looked at her narrowly. “When do I get to hear your story?”

            “I believe you did, an hour ago in the drawing room.”

            Phillip said nothing.

            “A personal story, you mean? In which you get to hear about some of those mistakes I referred to?”

            “With or without those.”

            Agnes touched her earrings and reflected. “Croquet is at eleven. I need to meet with Grandma Brown, as you know, tomorrow, hopefully in the morning while she is still fresh. She tires so quickly these days. Then the ladies are all going into town in the afternoon. I really can’t say—“

            “Of course,” said Phillip apologetically. “I am selfish to want the hostess to myself. But I hope that one day you will honor me again with a personal audience and tell me about Agnes Eileen Somerset.”

            “You have found out my full name, I see.”

            Phillip’s dark eyes twinkled. He opened the book where it lay on the table to the place he had left off. “You should get some sleep, you know. Croquet at eleven tomorrow. And I’m quite good.”

            “A challenge! Then I must be rested and ready!” Agnes declared, rising. “I have heard it said that I am quite good myself.”

            Phillip rose and, before she could move away, took her hand and kissed it gently. “Good night, Miss Somerset.”

            With heart pounding, she managed only, “I trust you will sleep well,” and somehow left the room. Climbing the stairs, she realized that her fatigue had fled, replaced with an excitement that her body struggled to contain.

Chapter 17

Irene Brown sat on the terrace, bundled in an old quilt against the cool morning air. Her small breakfast concluded, she watched the workers tramping through heavy dew as they prepared for the day’s croquet tournament. The grass sparkled as the sun broke over the roof of the great house and lit up the west lawn.

            Stepping out to test the day, Agnes found her grandmother sunk in a reverie. The old woman did not notice her granddaughter until Agnes stood fully before her. Grandma Brown raised her gentle face and smiled as Agnes placed a kiss on her soft cheek.

            “Good morning, my dear! Aren’t you a goddess in that dress. The pale green brings out the color in your eyes. You have your father’s eyes, you know, with those little flecks of green.”

            “I feel like a goddess today, Grandma—or at least someone who wakes up in paradise. What a morning! But are you warm enough?”

            “I’m fine. However, I do prefer eastern terraces—they get the sun in the morning, and then they’re cool in the afternoon. Not that I expect you to do anything about that.”

            “I believe Phinnaeus built his terrace on the west to watch sunsets. From all accounts he was not an early riser.” Agnes took a seat beside her grandmother.

            “He was a profligate,” frowned the old woman. “It was decent of you to leave that out of your history last night. Still, he was a successful profligate. Those are rare. Such habits usually lead to ruin.” Grandma’s face had darkened as she spoke, looking away from Agnes toward the bright lawn.

            Agnes saw her opening. “Grandma, I want to thank you for all the help you have been to me lately. I know that we have you to thank that Brookside stays in the family. You have been so generous.” Grandma squeezed her hand but said nothing.

            “Grandma, something rather odd happened yesterday. May I tell you?”

            Grandma Brown turned to her granddaughter. “Of course, my dear.”

            Agnes took Mrs. Brown’s small hand in both of hers, feeling as she held it the swollen knuckles and the wedding band worn smooth of all decoration. “Yesterday in the garden I overheard a conversation. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it couldn’t be helped. Wilbur and Eleanor seemed to be having a heated argument about something. I learned that Eleanor had intended to write to me about a serious matter, but Wilbur didn’t let her. He told her that he should tell me in person. They both indicated that you knew all about it, whatever it is.”

            Mrs. Brown had not moved and hardly seemed to be breathing.

            “Grandma?”

            Gradually she drew a deep breath, her old eyes brimming with uncertainty. She fumbled to pull a handkerchief out of her sleeve and rubbed it nervously between her fingers. Isaiah approached with fresh coffee, set down the tray, and withdrew discreetly. Agnes poured both coffee and cream into a bright yellow cup and handed it to Grandma, who sipped it intently and said, “Let us talk tomorrow, my dear. I do need to discuss something with you. And bring along Mr. Rockwell because I will want his opinion.”

            “Tomorrow? Are you sure, Grandma? I could certainly make time today—“

            “No, my dear, tomorrow will be soon enough,” Mrs. Brown assured her, patting Agnes’s knee. She smiled at her granddaughter, then turned back to the glittering lawn. “I was reflecting earlier on how many mornings have I seen. A great many by now, I’m afraid. As a child I would run through damp grass, delighted to start the day. Now I sit and watch others. For so much of my life it felt like my days might go on almost forever. You know I have married twice—I question why I did it the second time—and have buried both my sons. Life is so long, Agnes. Don’t let people tell you it’s short—that isn’t true. A dozen times, when things were dark, I almost wished to leave. But now . . . ” She paused to set down her coffee. “Now I clutch each moment that remains in this world. It’s all swirled through with the sweet and the bitter, you know, but still a world worth hanging on to until the last possible hour.”

            The warming air coaxed Mrs. Brown to push back the faded quilt from her shoulders. Agnes asked if she could get her anything, then with a firm hug, left her to attend to final arrangements for the day’s activities. She dared offer up a quick prayer that her grandmother might yet live to see a great-grandchild born into this world, a place Agnes already knew well as “all swirled through with the sweet and the bitter.”

To be continued . . .

Episode 8: The Wilbur Browns Have Something to Say but Phillip's Story Comes First

Chapter 14

She studied Phillip’s profile, so close she could make out each soft eyelash. The dying breeze blew strands of hair against his temple and cheek. Agnes watched them dance there as she fought an inexplicable urge to reach out and tuck them behind his ear.

            Low voices approaching from beyond the hedge broke the spell. Phillip looked at Agnes as she put a finger to her lips. The voices came nearer while the two sat as still as the statues watching over them. Wilbur’s low tones floated on the cooling air.

            “. . . not at all the time to talk about a thing like this.”

            Eleanor answered, her voice tense with urgency. “You promised me that you would tell her on this visit. You know I wanted you to make a clean breast of it weeks ago, but you said”—her voice going pompous—“‘This is not something you put in a letter.’ Well, which is it? We’re here and you can tell her face to face.”

            “My love,” Wilbur replied, just inches behind the dense hedge, “she’s my cousin. I should know how to handle this, don’t you think? And wouldn’t I be a cad to spoil her anniversary party with such a discussion?”

            “If you don’t, Grandma will. Do you think for a moment that she is going to leave here without letting Agnes know? If she sees you keeping silent?”

            “You need to trust me with this, Eleanor,” Wilbur put down firmly. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t play the righteous wife.” The voices thinned as the couple moved off, leaving behind them a domestic sort of anger that hangs in the air like smoke.

            Phillip looked at Agnes with concern. “What do you make of that?” he whispered.

            Agnes clamped her skirt in her hands. “I’ve no idea. But it sounds like I should have a conversation with Grandma Brown first thing tomorrow.” Agnes remembered Mrs. Bairnaught’s advice to her the night before. “It appears I have some things to look into,” she said distractedly. Collecting herself, she smiled at Phillip. “But now I want to hear the rest of your story.”

            Phillip sat back. “Where was I?”

            “Beheadings, and not a place for those with a heart.”

            “Well, let’s see. You remember what Gregory told me? About being careful what you prayed for? Well, I learned not to wish for rain or against it.” Phillip told how the monsoons were a force to reckon with, indeed, but their absence was worse. In 1875 the rains failed across southern India. The population scratched out an existence, waiting for the next season. But the next year they did not come either. By then, the price of the little food that remained was horrifyingly high, out of most people’s reach. Britain was slow to respond, with the viceroy in charge declaring that a free market would be the best way to ensure an adequate supply of food. By the time they set up refugee camps they were too few and too late. The mission closed, and Phillip went to lend a hand in a camp 50 miles to the east.

            “On the road I came across flocks of children wandering alone. Walking skeletons. I couldn’t understand how these little ones kept going. And they did not just walk along themselves—I saw so many carrying children smaller than themselves, wasted down to their bones, too exhausted even to speak. Scores of them arrived weekly at the camp. Often those who clung to one another were not even related but had come from the same village where their parents had died of famine or cholera or had simply abandoned them in search of food.”

            “We brought some back to life. Others got only as far as our gate. They would deliver their little burdens into our arms, then lie down . . .” Phillip’s voice failed and he looked at the ground. Agnes took his hand and pressed it into hers.

            “I cannot tell you all that I saw. I must not. No one I suppose will ever read a full account. It’s as one missionary told me, that a man’s pen sticks at writing down scenes that have made his blood run cold.”

            Agnes waited, watching a band of noisy blackbirds find their places in the treetops. Finally she asked softly, “How long did this go on?”

            In earnest, eighteen months. It seemed an eternity. The rains finally found Madras again in 78, in June. He returned to the little mission, but nothing was left of it. Gregory had been killed on a solitary outing by a murderous band of thugs, hoping no doubt that his bloody death would placate Indra. That mercurial goddess would then release the monsoons and end the famine, or so a talkative passerby had told him.

            “So I walked into town and stood in what was left of it. Half of the inhabitants were dead or gone. What to do. I decided to pay a visit to the family I remembered as the wealthiest in the area and see if they would help me rebuild the mission. I had no idea why they would—I just thought I’d give the hand of God an opportunity. I hadn’t the least idea what else to do. The father, Dhanesh, being a good man of business, spoke very fine English. He was genial and sat me down. I remember he said with a grin” (here Phillip adopted an authentic south Indian singsong) “‘Why do you waste your time here in Madras? You are a young man, strong, intelligent, but you are getting older every day and you are alone. It is not good for you. A lizard who comes to live with the turtles will never teach them to be lizards. And the turtles just wait for him to leave one day. You are understanding me?” Phillip smiled. “I was understanding.”

            “So you left?”

            “No. You might say I should have.” Phillip glanced at Agnes, then away. “He had a daughter.”

Chapter 15

Rupa was fourteen and well into marrying age. Her father suspected every man in the province of wanting to wed her for her beauty and the family’s money, and indeed, she had many suitors. Her mother envied the daughter whose radiance grew as her own faded. She had noticed how lately, when they walked together through town, her daughter stole the attention of men who only a handful of years ago looked approvingly at her, the lovely Neela. So Neela soothed her injured vanity by scolding the girl for failings large, small, and imagined. Three brothers, all older, delighted in teasing Rupa and setting up elaborate schemes to frighten her. The father joined in the hilarity, and even though the mother condemned this campaign of shock as going too far, her sons had long ago developed an immunity to her high-pitched harangues.

            Being a hospitable Hindu, Rupa’s father invited Phillip to stay in his home while deciding what to do next—that is, when to leave the country and by what means. They gave him new clothes (his own were in rags), fed him, and instructed him in the glories of their many gods. Reclining on silk cushions, Dhanesh talked to Phillip long into the night about the proud history of India, about what Marco Polo really found on his voyage through that country, about invaders and emperors and the craftiest warrior of all ages, the Lion of Punjab.

            Rupa kept her distance from Phillip but he had caught her watching him from corners or behind curtains. He assumed that he might be the only man who did not stare at her or order her about or sadistically frighten her.

            “One day,” recalled Phillip, “I took a basket of melons from her and carried it the rest of the way to the kitchen. I could see that this confused her, especially when she saw that I wanted nothing from her. The next day, in my broken Hindi, I told her the story of Mary Magdalene, and how Jesus was probably the first man who had loved her without wanting something in return. I tried to explain how Jesus was like that, a servant, and yet God. Of course, this was very difficult for her to imagine. She asked me to tell the story many times over, and sometimes I would substitute other parables—the Good Samaritan, the rich young ruler, the good and poor soil. Her mother watched us with suspicion. Her father laughed.”

            “He did not see you as a threat, I imagine?”

            “Not at all. I believe he saw me as a mangy cub he had taken in until I could be released back into my own habitat.”

            “Did she fall in love with you?” The question startled Agnes even as she said it.

            “She would have fallen in love with any man who was kind to her.”

            “What happened?”

            One night Rupa crept to Phillip’s bed and begged him to take her back home with him. She would marry him, or be his servant, anything he wanted. He could never forget how her wet eyes shone wildly as she knelt beside him in the moonlit room. She could not stay there, she said. Her father was in final negotiations to marry her to the son of a minor prince, a young man only ten years older than her but already famous for his wickedness.

            “What could I do? I could not leave her there. I had met her betrothed earlier at a festival in Hyderabad—I was walking through the market when his man pulled me over and asked me to translate an inscription inside a ring. Manindra, the fiancé, stood there, handsomely dressed, with a great sword hanging at his side. He held the ring out to me without a word, and his eyes were like a dead man’s—there was no light in them. They did not seem human, really. I’ve never seen eyes like them.”

            “What was the inscription?” Agnes asked. She had always needed every detail colored in when hearing a story.

            “It was Latin: Misere mei, Deus.”

            “Have mercy on me, Lord.”

            “Yes. I could not help imagining that the ring came off the finger of a Catholic priest, and probably not with his consent. I gave Manindra the translation and he slid the heavy ring onto his middle finger. Then he paid the seller and smiled at me in the strangest way. Even in that miserable heat, a chill ran through me.”

            Phillip described the plan he devised with Rupa. In two days they would steal away during the night to a town ten miles south, where they could catch a train to the coast. They would travel posing as man and wife. In Bombay he would find a friend of his father, who could be counted on to lend him enough money to transport them to France.  Once there, he would leave Rupa in the care of nuns in Rheims, a refuge he had heard other missionaries tell about.

            They waited through the next two agonizing days, afraid that someone, somehow, might read their minds and snatch Rupa away to the prince’s household for safekeeping. Instead, the family continued in its routine, the mother scolding everyone and fussing over wedding preparations while the brothers left a dead lizard in Rupa’s shoe, and this was all very reassuring.

            Just after midnight, with only a sliver of moon to guide them, Phillip and Rupa slipped out of the house. If they were caught, it meant certain death for Rupa and something worse for Phillip. They hugged the shadows along the road going south, hiding from the late-night carts that rattled along that lonely stretch, reaching the train station just before dawn. Rupa kept her veil spread over her face and walked with the dignity of a married woman, adorned with jewelry befitting a young bride. She had taken the finery from her hope chest kept in her mother’s room the evening before, along with enough money for food, the train trip, and any bribes that might ease the journey.

            Phillip purchased two tickets to Bombay. They wandered through the marketplace for an hour, concealing themselves amid the crowd in case any one had come looking for them already. At the last possible moment, they returned to the station and jumped on the westbound train, settling themselves away from the windows. A conductor eyed them suspiciously above his massive moustache as he took their tickets, staring intently at Phillip before moving on. As he walked back through the car, he stopped again beside them.

            “You are missionary?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

            Phillip’s jaw tightened but he replied as evenly as he could, “That’s right.”

            “You have been in Anayesh, in Madras?”

            “Some time ago, yes.” It might end here, Phillip thought. This man could call the guards and pull them off the train. “God, help us!” he silently implored.

            The conductor’s sun-darkened face relaxed. The small man grabbed Phillip’s hand and squeezed it. “You are good man!”

            Phillip slowly let out his breath while trying to retrieve the man’s face from memory. The conductor explained that Phillip had taken his child from him when they arrived at the relief camp a year ago, his wife already dead along the way. He reminded Phillip of how he had fed the man’s little girl for several days as the father, too weak and sick to care for her, lay on a mat and watched. His daughter was now healthy, he said, and living with his mother while he looked for a new wife.

            “I remember you tell me, in heaven, no caste. For Jesus, we all are same. I like your Jesus,” he whispered, dropping his head close to Phillip’s ear. Then he was gone.

            Agnes saw Phillip’s face brighten as he recalled the scene. He turned ruefully to her. “My only convert!”

            The rest of the journey went incredibly well. They found the Duke’s friend in Bombay, still at his old address. After listening closely to Phillip’s story, he rose stiffly and took from a little locked drawer in his desk the money needed to reach France and pressed it upon the young man. Seeing this, Rupa reached into her bag and drew out two gold bracelets as partial payment. The good man held up his hands, but she insisted, and he knew better than to refuse. They all shook hands warmly, and their benefactor sent the couple off with his best wishes and greetings for the Duke. The boat sailed, the wind blew fair, and by the time Phillip and Rupa reached the Suez they had stopped looking over their shoulder. In France they found the convent right where the missionaries had described it, spreading quietly beside a humble stone church. After a long embrace, Phillip left Rupa at its gates, in the care of the nuns. Then, unwilling to present himself to his father in the state of turmoil and exhaustion that the adventure had left him in, Phillip made his way to the home of his godparents (artistic ex-patriots from New York) just south of Paris, there to recover and re-acclimate himself to the civilized life of sitting at a well-set table, wearing clean clothes that fit, and communicating in his native language. 

            “This is a wonderful story,” Agnes breathed when he had finished. “Why should your father tell any other?”

            “Have you heard the axiom that no good deed goes unpunished?” asked Phillip. “At least in this life.”

            “I have both heard it and experienced it,” she assured him.

            “There is another version of my story afoot. And for some reason it seems more credible to people than the actual one. Maybe because so many people enjoy thinking the worst. At any rate, Rupa’s father complained to the British governor, and word got around that I had a romantic entanglement with a young girl and had dishonored her in the worst possible way, then spirited her out of the country.”

            “Were you called to account for it somehow?”

            “Oh, yes, the Raj tracked me down and asked for a full explanation, which I provided except for any disclosure about where I left Rupa. As it was my word against her father’s, nothing could be proven, so they have left me alone. Nevertheless, the ugly version of this tale has somehow found its way into certain pockets of society, so I am for some a man with a soiled past.” He glanced sideways at Agnes and pushed at a buried rock with the toe of his boot.

            “So,” observed Agnes, “your good works have earned you a penalty you did not suspect at the time.”

            “Correct.”

            “The consequences truly never occurred to you?”

            “I knew her family would be furious, but I counted on distance to protect me from them. That the story would follow me home and besmirch my name here was a surprise. I am, you will see, that most exasperating of human creatures, the slow learner.”

            Agnes felt her heart throb with affection for this man, but she kept her mind steady.

            “And what reason do I have,” asked Agnes coyly, “for believing one tale rather than another?”

            “None at all,” he answered, rising. “You may believe whichever one appeals to you.” He held his arm out to her. She looked up into his face but had trouble making out his expression in the dusk.

            Suddenly a realization struck her. “Oh, my!” she cried, jumping to her feat. “The dinner! I still need to dress. Look how you have distracted me, Lord Phillip.”

            “Then let’s away, madam—let’s run!” Agnes took his arm with one hand and her skirts with the other and ran as lightly as she could ever remember through the gloom of the garden and toward the great house where golden light now shone from every window.

To be continued . . .