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 . . .
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