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 . . .