Episode 15: A Night in the Garden, and Phillip Makes a Proposal (to His Father)

Chapter 28

Sitting once more between the yearning statues, Agnes summed up her life for Phillip as neatly as she could. She was born at Brookside three years after her sister, now dead. Her mother and father were wonderful people who died in quick succession, leaving her to manage the estate. She was a college graduate. She had seen Paris and London and Hamburg but traveled little since assuming care of the family home. Her French was fluent, and she, like all her family before her, was a Presbyterian. She hoped one day to visit the Greek ruins and ride a gondola through Venice. 

            “Well, that’s about all. I’m not as interesting as Aunt Vera or probably your mother, I’m afraid.”

            Phillip leaned back and studied her narrowly in the light of the rising moon.

            “I suspect,” said Agnes, “that I have not satisfied your curiosity.”

            “I’d like to know what you love. Also what has disappointed you. Maybe even what you hope for, beyond a gondola ride.”

            Agnes gathered her skirt absently into a loose fist. “A woman is not accustomed to sharing intimate feelings with someone so early in their acquaintance,” she demurred.

            “Was I being intimate?” rejoined Phillip with a look of surprise. “I didn’t realize. I just wanted to know something real about you, not a family tree.”

            No man had ever wanted to know this much about her. Although she was sitting, she felt almost dizzy. She gripped the edge of the cool marble.

            “Very well. But you will need to ask questions. I can’t just ramble on about myself. You might as well know that I’ve been accused of thinking in lists, so please don’t criticize if my answers are spare.”

            “Agreed. Let’s begin with disappointments and get those out of the way. Of course I don’t expect you to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he assured her.

            Disappointments. Where should she start? A cartoon popped into her mind, one she had seen years ago in the newspaper. A little old man sat behind a desk with two books on it. One slim volume was labeled Appointments. The other, a massive tome at least five times as big, was titled Disappointments.

            “All right. I wish I were more like my mother. I am disappointed that I don’t have her grace, her easy sophistication, her equanimity in the face of trouble. She made life look easy, but I seem to churn over the smallest things.”

            “I’m certain that you have many qualities she found lacking in herself.”

            “Oh, I don’t think so. Yes, I have my strengths, but Mother was completely sufficient. And sure of herself. But there’s more. I’m disappointed that I don’t get to travel anymore as I did. Even if I managed to break away from my duties for a few weeks, all my friends and relations seem to be busy with their own lives and I would have to travel alone, which sounds dreadful. Sitting on the Champs Elysée at a table for one—hardly worth the voyage.”

            “These things are difficult,” said Phillip, watching her. “To be a woman alone with the responsibility you carry. How do you get through, if I may ask such a question?”

            Agnes looked at him. “How do you get through? You are also alone.”

            “I have no responsibilities,” returned Phillip. “I should, but I somehow, even at my advanced age, do not. You are different.”

            “Well, I don’t really know. Of course I pray, but that doesn’t always pull one all the way along, does it?” She reflected a moment, then plunged ahead. “You may have noticed that I do not take wine at dinner.”

“I assumed you were one of our temperate sisters.”

“I used to take too much wine. The warm comfort of a good red helped me through dark times, starting with my sister’s death, really, until it brought me down altogether—leaving me with the punishment of never enjoying a glass again.”

            “Is such strictness truly necessary?”

            “I found that for me there is no such thing as ‘just one glass.’”

            “I understand.”

            “Do you?”

            Phillip leaned back and watched her a moment. “Yes. I imagine it’s rather like opium, but people do not sit around the dinner table smoking opium, so it’s not so hard to avoid as alcohol.”

            “Are you telling me that you have frequented opium dens?”

            “No. But I have tried it and know its allure. It was during the famine. Everything around me was so terrible—there was no relief, almost nothing to lose. Someone gave me a little and it quieted the pain beautifully. Until it wore off, of course.”

            “Ah, that is the hard part. All the pain is still there, waiting.”

            “Yes, and it frightened me. I knew I would not have the strength to resist the drug’s sweet oblivion.”

            They sat silent for a while. Then Phillip asked, “What do you love?”

            Agnes thought for a moment. “I love Brookside. I don’t know how I would live anywhere else. I love roses, especially the complex, thorny ones. I love good, hot tea in the morning with cream and coffee after dinner. I love the symphony and the opera, especially Bach and Verdi—that huge, rising sound that goes straight to your heart. I love thunderstorms and the wind at night. This list could get very long, you know.”

            “Have you been in love?”

            “Of course.”

            “Did he know you loved him?”

            “Yes.”

            “But he ran away?”

            “Something like that. Yes, he did run away. For a long time it felt like he took the better part of me with him. But we eventually heal, don’t we?”

            “Most of the time.”

            “And you, have you ever been in love?”

            “Oh, yes. That riotous affliction of the senses! It has taken hold of me more than once.”

            “And yet?”

            “Turned down, I regret to admit. The ladies like me, but I don’t seem to be marrying material. Father says I tend to be a bonfire where what’s wanted is only a good lamp with an obedient wick.”

            “I’m very fond of bonfires. I like their intensity.”

            “As long as they are not in the parlor.”

            “They need the right setting, of course. And one needs to keep an eye on them.”

            “They don’t frighten you?”

            “Not at all.”

            They were looking directly at one another. Phillip put out a hand and traced Agnes’s cheek with his fingertips. She felt his hand slide behind her head and saw his face draw close, then his lips were upon hers, and she smelled him and felt him and wanted to walk bodily into the roaring fire that was Phillip.

            * * *

            Stella had been asleep for hours by the time Agnes tiptoed past her room. Undoing her dress with some difficulty, Agnes hung it over a chair, pulled open the drapes, and lay down to stare at the bewitching night. She listened to the frogs and nocturnal insects and let the adrenaline course through her body. Did tonight really happen? Over and over as she lay on the cool sheet she felt his hand on the nape of her neck, his moustache so much softer than she had imagined against her face, his lips pressing against hers, his hair between her fingers. Two hours had slid away like minutes as they embraced, clinging to each other and wishing that the world would slow its turning toward the waiting sun. Periodically they pulled back to look at one another in wonder or gaze out at the magical night landscape. Agnes wanted to seal the image in her mind: the immense sky, the stars, the blue-black fields stretching away luxuriously, the heavy scent of honeysuckle, the look of her hand in his. Shortly before dawn a brief sleep overtook her, swirled with dreams in brilliant colors.

Chapter 29

Living with one’s father long after outgrowing the nursery is seldom easy for a young man. And rare is that father who can co-exist peacefully with the man he himself produced, especially one who has not found his path in life. The father wants more for his son, he is anxious for him, and—most difficult of all—he finds through such close association that his son has become a man who views the world differently than he. Each generation that tumbles out of the one before thinks itself a new breed, unbounded by the limitations of its parents, destined to split the future in two with its own hands and walk triumphantly through the middle.

            And so it was the most natural thing that Phillip should return from India to his father’s house knowing that it would be a difficult season for both of them. Never has a son loved his father more, nor a father his son. Nevertheless, Phillip intended to make his stay at Fellcrest as short as possible, taking just as much time as necessary to discern his next move. But he was tired. And he had not the smallest fragment of an idea what he should do next or where he might go.

            After the exhilarating week at Brookside, the days in his father’s house felt especially long. They were at the same time perfectly pleasant and consistently nerve-wracking. The Duke brought him into his affairs and tried to make him feel needed, but Phillip found it difficult to concentrate on the political goings-on and business strategies of his father’s circle. Just like when he was a boy, once he understood the principle and pattern of the game, he was ready to play something else.

            The Duke introduced him to innumerable worthies in the best social spheres and did not hesitate to ask that they consider his son for a part in their firms. A few, out of deference to his father and a genuine wish to help the young man, offered him positions of one sort or another, some of substance and others merely titular; but Phillip had so far demurred.

            One brilliant July afternoon, riding home from Albany, father and son sat looking out at the glowing countryside in silence. The Duke sat across from Phillip and studied his face. The boy’s features were placid and not in keeping with one who should be turning over in his mind the promising events of the day. The Duke adjusted his cravat, glanced at his watch, and back at his son. Finally he spoke, his words carrying an unmistakable edge.

            “So, what do you think? Can you see yourself working with Messrs. Hodge and Blest? They are capital fellows, I assure you. Excellent reputation, solid firm. And they have offered a most interesting position, you must admit.”

            “I liked them very much,” Phillip smiled. “Especially Mr. Blest. So affable. He demonstrated the highest regard for my abilities when he couldn’t have the faintest idea what I would do for his company.”

            “He’s a good judge of character, Joseph Blest. A house cannot succeed like theirs unless they engage only the best people. You impressed him.”

            Phillip uttered a laugh. “I didn’t say ten words.”

            “All the better! ‘A prudent man keeps his knowledge to himself, but the heart of fools blurts out folly.’* You did well, Phillip.”

            Phillip stared out the window at a farm sliding by. The stern white house, softening in aspect beneath its gently peeling paint, sat just off the road, with a dirt yard and a tumble of outbuildings beside it. Off in a green field two figures, possibly the farmer and his son, walked slowly toward a weathered barn with tools over their lean shoulders. A sparse herd of cows came into view, lying on their knees in the shade of scant trees, moving their jaws lazily from side to side and watching the road.

            “So, what do you think?” the Duke repeated.

            “I think,” sighed his son, “that it’s a fine position with the very best company a fellow could hope to join, but I don’t know if I am the man for the job.”

            “Why?” exploded his father, waving his arms as far as the confines of the carriage allowed. “Why do you doubt yourself? I don’t know what else I can do—”

            “Nothing, father. You have been heroic in trying to help me since I’ve been back. Your associates have offered me more than I could possibly have expected, and I’m very grateful to them and to you.”

            “Then why do you drag your heels this way? Why not say yes to something and get on with your life?”

            Why indeed. Phillip could not explain why the prospect of working in a respectable office with serious men of business backed by piles of ledgers and books on taxation and exchange rates froze the blood in his veins. He needed to ply some trade that took him outdoors or kept him on the move. He looked out at another farm, much larger and tidier than the last. A half-grown crop of bright green corn stretched across a vast field, and after that came alfalfa, then beets.

            “What do you think of agriculture?” he asked his father.

            The Duke hesitated. “What do you mean?”

            “None of our family, as far as I know, has ever dabbled in agriculture, have we?”

            “Not that I know of. Not our business. My uncle was a master with roses—even developed his own hybrid. Did you know that? The Queen’s Veil. It was almost black, very unusual, rather foreboding, but it made quite a sensation among the horticulturalists.”

            They rode a mile in silence and Phillip began again. “Father, I’ve been thinking that I might like to give farming a try. In a small way, of course, not hundreds of acres. But it looks satisfying. It produces something real, you understand?”

He looked intently at his father, who sat back with his hands on his knees and asked,     “What do you know about farming?”

            “Very little, but I’ve been reading up on it and talking to our neighbors. From what I’ve gathered, potatoes would be a good idea. We really don’t have enough of them, they store well, and they don’t need as much water as corn, which can be tricky. Alfalfa is very good, too.”

            “Are you making a proposal, son?”

            “What would you think, Father, if we bought a few acres and tried our hand? There’s a piece for sale about 15 miles north of us, just under 100 acres. He’ll sell the whole thing or halves. He’s an elderly man with no one to leave it to. His children have all gone into the trades of one kind or another.”

            “Is there water?”

            “Yes, two fine brooks that he says run all year.”

            “We don’t know anything about farming, Phillip,” the Duke reminded him, as though realizing it anew.

            “Not now,” admitted Phillip, leaning forward, “but by next year I could have studied a great deal, and the old man was willing to show me. I visited the property two weeks ago. I didn’t want to mention anything to you then, but I wish you had seen it: The old man stood at the gate before I left and talked a good while. He told me he had no one to teach everything he knows to. Everything that he learned the hard way, it all goes with him. He looked destitute, although he owns this marvelous piece of property. It was very sad.”

            “So you have been thinking this over for a while? Well, it’s not the worst idea you’ve had.” The Duke thought for a few moments, recalling a proverb about he who works his land will have abundant food, while one who chases fantasies lacks judgment. He had surely seen his dear boy chase plenty of fantasies.

He looked at Phillip and saw an eagerness that had been absent. “I suppose I could take it under consideration.” Father and son sat in silence the rest of the way home, and the Duke watched the rolling, green properties pass by as though he had just been given a new pair of eyes.

 

To be continued . . .

______

* Proverbs 12:23.

Episode 14: A Father Plans Revenge as a Summer Evening Turns Magical

Chapter 26

Once again the village of Rama Nagar, like so many other middling towns dotting the vast expanse of India, was ankle-deep in water, and the nearby river was set to overrun its banks. Villagers ran splashing through the streets with clothing stretched over their heads as the water poured down without interruption. A man well into the second half of his life, dressed in a damp gray tunic and trousers rolled up to the knee, stood erect on a corner surveying the scene. A lopsided black umbrella, the only one in town, distinguished him as he held it importantly over his head His face, known to everyone for its habitual cheer, was set into firm lines. These same lines had, in the course of recent months, worn themselves deep into the dark flesh of his face. A deep, vertical groove marked the space between his dark brows, now sprinkled with white, and furrows fell somberly from his nose to each corner of his mouth. His hair, too, was well mixed with white, hair that had kept its youthful black until this year.

            Dhanesh looked up the waterlogged street with a mixture of sadness and contempt. For how many years had he urged the city council to build raised walkways along the main streets? Or pushed for them to dig proper drainage canals to carry away the rain that overwhelmed the business district every single year? It did not matter any more. Only one thing mattered. His mind had emptied itself of all his old ambitions, and these had been replaced by one consuming goal.

            Two of his old colleagues on the council sloshed past and greeted him quickly, glancing up through the slanting rain, and walked on. So it always was these days. He would soon lose his seat on the council, but it did not matter. He would no longer even be consulted on special projects. He had become translucent, a man whom it was now in the nature of things to ignore. If not for his money, he would be altogether invisible.

            Dhanesh straightened and began his march up the middle of the street. His wife needed curry and he had needed to get out of the grim prison his home had become. Her endless complaining and blaming were beyond bearing some days. The boys were leaving as soon as the rains ended. He would be left alone to absorb all of Neela’s grief and rage. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better to put her out of her misery one night, deftly and mercifully, but he knew he never could. She had been so delightful when they first married, so perfectly beautiful, but the years and the fair-haired foreigner had taken everything.

            He was still stunned by the disappointment of yesterday’s report from the British officials. The accused had been located in the United States and interviewed. There was no trace of Dhanesh’s daughter and no grounds for further investigation. Nothing more to be accomplished in an official capacity, he was free to pursue by private means, with our sincere regrets, etcetera, etcetera. He had not even told Neela yet; let her continue to hope a while longer, at least until he decided on the next step. For he was not stopping here.

            He stepped aside to make way for a rickety cart loaded with pottery that three men, all talking at once, were pushing through the mud. A fourth man led the dripping and reluctant donkey, who seemed to have given up pulling. Dhanesh looked into the animal’s brown eyes as the noisy group passed, and he cringed with sympathy for the beast, burdened with a load he did not know how to move forward but could not free himself from. Involuntarily he put out a hand and ran it along the animal’s wet fur. He watched them struggle on for a few moments, then continued on his way.

            He would find the man, and his lost Rupa. After all he had done for that filthy Christian, to be repaid like this, stealing his daughter right out from under them, and on the eve of her wedding. He still shook remembering the morning when he found them both gone, the dawning realization of what had happened during the night, the impossibility of undoing it. And Manindra—Dhanesh had never seen such rage. He himself had done the right thing, had gone directly to the prince to inform him that the bride was missing (what horror had filled him at the prospect of saying the words, and how they had echoed in the marble receiving room.)

            Manindra struck out immediately on a hunt of his own, with a dozen of his best men. They were gone for a week but returned empty-handed. So what chance did Dhanesh have now with the scent long cold?

            It did not matter. The gods might be punishing him, but it was every man’s responsibility to carry a thing as far as he was able to carry it. He would hire his own detective. He knew a good one in Hyderabad who was a bloodhound at finding missing wives. Or maybe he would just go himself and get away from Neela, away from everything. Once these abominable rains slowed, once he thought up a plan.

Chapter 27

Dahlia could not have been happier. Her nephew had not only been vindicated, but had shown himself worthy of special commendation for his extraordinary efforts in keeping the wine cellar free of vermin. The Chateau Plessy had been found, all twelve bottles, by Fettles himself when he undertook a complete inventory of the remaining wine. He discovered the prized claret in a rack just around a brick pillar from the others. It turned out, upon investigation, that Dahlia’s nephew had moved it there while pursuing a bold pair of rats who had made their home in the cellar. He had succeeded in trapping both and executing them without mercy, but had forgotten to replace the Plessy.

            This was happy news for Agnes because she could now serve the fine vintage that night over dinner with Lord Phillip. She consulted Dahlia early in the morning regarding a menu, and they decided on veal in a light caper sauce, with asparagus and roasted potatoes. Agnes put in a special request for a batch of Dahlia’s famous anise cookies to serve afterwards with coffee.

            Stella was thrilled to hear who the evening’s dinner guest would be and offered her aunt to let them dine alone. Agnes refused and insisted that Stella keep them company through dinner and coffee, too, if she was up to it. If Phillip felt like lingering still longer, they might take a turn in the garden alone.

            “Aunt Agnes, you almost make me think you’re frightened of his lordship,” Stella teased, wiping a sleeve across her forehead as they pruned back the early-blooming roses. Both women possessed an industrious nature that forbid them to sit idle, even on a warm July morning, so they had put on their lightest dresses, leaving their corsets on the closet hooks, and asked Ned where he might use some help in the garden. After producing two pairs of pruning shears, leather gloves, and a wire bin, and after careful instruction on just where to cut and at what angle, Ned left the ladies to their work among the blooms and thorns.

            Agnes explained that of course she was afraid of Lord Phillip, and what single woman would not be? She admitted to being taken in before by an irresistible scoundrel and did not want to ever let herself go through that again. Stella begged for details, but Agnes would share no more. She steered the conversation to lighter subjects, which occupied them happily until their exertions in the hot sun took their toll, and the ladies laid down their shears and strolled through the grass to the cool brook the estate was named for. There, behind a copse of old elms, they tied up their skirts, took off their stockings, and waded into the stream’s little rapids, stepping carefully along its stony bottom while splashing cold water on their pink faces. When they were thoroughly refreshed, they wandered slowly up the hill to the house, ate a small lunch on the terrace, and went upstairs for a well-deserved nap.

            As she began to doze, Agnes realized that she should not even have alluded to M. earlier in the garden. Just the mention kept him darting into her thoughts all afternoon. He looked back at her from mirrors and sat across from her at lunch. Even as she dressed for dinner, she felt his hands on her waist, his lips on her neck. Could anything be that good again, or would he haunt her forever?

            She slept for only an hour, and when she woke evening was still a long way off. She passed the afternoon restlessly between reading and embroidery, and finding she could concentrate on neither one, she resorted to reorganizing her jewelry and letting her mind wander to how each piece had come to be hers. Somehow the hours went by, and at last it was time to dress. As Marie fastened the last pearly button on the back of Agnes’s gown, she heard something through the open window and darted over to look down. Agnes’s room overlooked the front drive, giving a full view of any approaching or departing guests. It had been her mother’s room, and Agnes took it over a few months after her death since she, like her mother, had always loved its morning sun, the cool afternoons, and the ability to keep an eye on all comings and goings.

            “He’s here, Miss Agnes,” Marie said, holding herself to the side of the drape. She watched for a moment. “He is a fine-looking gentleman, isn’t he, ma’m?”

            “Is he?” Agnes kept her voice even. Turning from the mirror, she caught Marie’s  look that told her they both knew it very well. “How do I look?”

            “Prettier than a peach.” There was a knock at the door and Stella entered, stunning in a deep blue gown that set off her red hair and pale skin.

            “Stella, how lovely you are!” declared Agnes.

            “It was all I could do to get this dress closed. Can you tell?”

            “No, dear, you look perfect. We’ll have to take you into Chesterton and get you some more comfortable dresses soon. That baby will just keep growing, you know.”

            Marie recalled that her mother sewed herself dresses out of tablecloths near the end of her confinements because nothing else was bearable. “Got big as you please, too, and that’s what you need. Gives you a healthy baby if you don’t squeeze the poor little thing into corsets.”

            Stella nodded. “My neighbor Mrs. Fielding has already lost two babies. The last one was a good way along, too. Mrs. Fielding doesn’t ever want to look in a family way, though, so she keeps herself laced up into her regular clothes. I don’t know how she did it. I feel like I’ll barely be able to eat a forkful in this dress without bursting the seams.”

            “We can’t have that!” exclaimed Agnes, “and you certainly must eat. Marie, what do we have for Stella? Maybe that Spanish jacket of mine? We could unbutton the dress and put on the jacket, and no one will ever know.”

            The item was located, and Stella was released from her torment. The jacket of dense black lace, a little long on her, perfectly hid the open back of the dress and was pronounced a success. Agnes took Stella’s arm, and the ladies descended to greet their guest.

            Stella managed to eat her fill at dinner, with second helpings of everything. In front of guests she would normally not indulge in such gluttony, but her appetite raged these days, and her two companions urged her to not hold back at the risk of depriving her child. Throughout the lively meal, Stella delighted in watching her aunt pretend nonchalance across the table from Lord Phillip. He presented himself relaxed and impeccably dressed except for his vest being misbuttoned by one, which gave him an oddly unbalanced look that failed to detract from his charm.

            After cookies and coffee on the terrace, Stella announced that she was a plat and retired to her room. But before leaving, while Phillip was interviewing Fettles about the evening’s wine, she whispered in Agnes’s ear, “Are you still frightened?”

            Agnes whispered back, “I have progressed to terrified.”

            She squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Please don’t disappoint me—” Her pale eyes were wide and urgent. “You must take him into the garden and tell me everything tomorrow. This night was made for you two.” And she slipped away.

            Stella was right. By now the night fully enveloped them, and stars twinkled in the blackness above. The breeze had died with the setting sun, but the soft, humid air felt delicious. It was a night bursting with potential, a night when you felt anything could happen.

            I hope he doesn’t run off now that Stella’s gone, thought Agnes. Phillip returned and sat lightly on the edge of his chair. His face glowed in the light from the table lamp.

            “Are you tired too?” he asked.

            “No, not particularly.”

            “My father accuses me of tending to overstay my welcome. If that’s so, I rely on you to point me toward the door.”

            “Very well,” Agnes laughed, unable to imagine ever wanting him to leave. “This might be rather scandalous, but what do you think of a nighttime tour of my garden?”

            “I love a garden at night,” said Phillip, looking toward the darkened path and the black silhouettes of sculpted shrubs. “The smells really come out after dark.” Phillip rose and put out his arm. Agnes called to Fettles not to worry, they would be in the garden, and together they stepped off the terrace and away from the light. They passed beneath a series of trellises draped in honeysuckle, whose creamy blooms could still be seen in the gloom. Their fragrance was intoxicating. Agnes stopped and plucked one. She snapped off the tiny end and carefully drew out the stamen for the tiny drop of nectar clinging to it. She held it up to show Phillip.

            “I used to pick apart dozens of these as a child to taste the one sweet drop inside each one. Did you?”

            “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I tried to make a goblet of it one day for my mother. I was knee-deep in ransacked blooms by the time I gave up. Naturally, I licked up the tiny bit of nectar I had and went off to play, knowing that Mother would understand.”

            “What was your mother like?”

            Phillip thought for a moment. “She was a wonderful storyteller and a genius with languages. But most of all she was a daring woman. You would have liked her. Not daring in a showy, obtrusive way, flinging her adventures in your face the way some women do. She was daring in a considered, intelligent way. And she let all of us children be who we were. She and my father got into more than one argument over that.”

            “About you maybe?”

            “About me and my sisters, both older. My father wanted to protect us from idiotic mistakes, like most parents do, and my mother wanted us to find out what truly suited us. I have taken the longest time to find that out. Still looking, still chafing my father’s poor nerves.”

            “You have two sisters?”

            “Yes, as different as earth and water, but wonderful girls. Both married and living in the City.”

            “You alone have escaped matrimony.”

            “Not so much escaped as failed to locate. I’m beginning to think my compass is a few degrees off. I never seem to quite arrive where I meant to.”

            A frog, hidden beneath the asters, croaked out a simple but impenetrable message as they passed. Two mice darted across the path, then peeked from under the leaves as though to reassure themselves of what they had just seen—two humans at night, trespassing on their playground.

            By now Agnes and Phillip had reached the hedge that separated the garden from Agnes’s private bench. As of one accord, their feet took them around it and stopped. Beneath them stretched the dark landscape, its farms fast asleep. Stars spread across the sky like tiny sequins spilled from a seamstress’s lap. Beside them the marble bench and its two guardians glowed softly in the dark.

            Phillip turned to Agnes, and she looked up at him. “Now I want to hear your story,” he murmured.

To be continued . . .

Episode 13: A Conversation Among the Gravestones

Chapter 24

Agnes and Stella sat in the soft grass before the granite marker at Grandma’s grave. The sky looked unfriendly, but Agnes seldom let the weather change her plans. She had brought an armful of red roses and arranged them in a pewter urn on the fresh earth in front of the stone. Stella sat with her sketchpad, making a study of the scene. She had promised Mrs. Bairnaught that she would paint a small canvas of Grandma’s final resting place and send it to her.

            Mrs. Bairnaught suffered a great blow with the passing of her friend. She clung more tightly to her husband and, in the days following Irene Brown’s death, looked increasingly disbelieving, as though she had woken from a terrible dream and was looking for someone who could tell her that none of it was true. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks when she spoke and when she sat quietly and of course when she helped Agnes go through the few items Grandma had brought to Brookside for her stay. Agnes readily agreed to let her keep Grandma’s Bible, whose pages were covered with notes in a neat, tiny hand. Mrs. Bairnaught had turned the thin pages to the place marked by a narrow brown ribbon. She read aloud, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .’” and looked up at Agnes. “This was the last thing I read to her,” she said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

            Today the cemetery was too quiet, even for a graveyard. Agnes broke the silence, her cross-stitch lying untouched in her lap. “I wonder how Mrs. Bairnaught is doing.”

            Stella frowned. “I feel so bad for her. They were friends forever, weren’t they?”

            “For about as long as you have been alive. Grandma told me that they wrote to each other every week. How terrible for Mrs. Bairnaught to find no more letters from her in the mailbox. When a woman like Grandma dies, it leaves so many holes.”

            “That’s what I want,” said Stella, pausing her pencil and looking around her. The wind was rising and bending the tall patches of unmowed grass. She took in the shadowless landscape, the young trees tethered to the ground in little groups, the sprinkling of headstones. “I want to leave holes when I go. Not permanent ones, of course, but I want to be missed. I hope everyone lying beneath those markers has people crying for them. What is sadder than a death unmourned?”

            “Nothing,” agreed Agnes, following her gaze. “Surely that is the worst of all.”

            “I wish Grandma could have been buried in the old churchyard,” Stella reflected.

            “I do too. But the war dead nearly filled it.”

            “Did you lose many people you knew?” asked Stella. At twenty-two, she was born during the war but was too young by its close to remember anything, and she had always felt somewhat cheated out of the drama.

            “Two especially,” said Agnes, remembering. “One was our groom who enlisted and was killed less than a month after marching off in his new uniform. The other was a boy I was very fond of as a child, a few years older than me. He was the son of one of Father’s associates, and we would play together when they had meetings at our house. He fell at Gettysburg. His mother had sent him off with a coupon from that retrieving company, so when they found him on the battlefield they brought him home and the family buried him here by the church.”

            “I can’t imagine searching through the pockets of dead men for embalming coupons,” Stella shivered. “What a business to be in!”

            “But it brought many a boy home for burial,” Agnes reminded her. “His funeral was so sad. His mother came up from her seat and stood by his coffin as the service began. Her husband got up and stood beside her, and they remained there through the whole service. She didn’t cry, she just stood there with her hands on her boy’s coffin. At the gravesite she took hold of one of the handles and wouldn’t let go—her husband had to pry her loose. I remember wondering if she was losing her mind, and I wouldn’t have blamed her.”

            The ladies sat quietly for a moment. To their right, a fresh hole had been dug for a burial later that day. “Don’t you wonder who it is?” asked Stella. “When I look at graves I always wonder what the person looked like as a girl or boy and how death must have surprised them, even if it came when they were ancient and bent over. Because I don’t think anyone is ever ready to leave. I’m sure I won’t be.”

            Agnes looked at her thoughtfully. “It’s interesting that you mention that. The day of her stroke, one of the last things Grandma said to me in the morning was how she prized every day, how she wanted to stay in this life to the last possible minute.”

            “So do I,” Stella admitted. “I really can’t bear the idea of leaving. I don’t understand why we all don’t go around wide-eyed with terror over the whole, unavoidable fact.”

            “Have you been thinking much about that lately?”

            “I don’t know. They say that once you’re a mother you fear death more because you worry for your children, you wonder who will look after them. But I’ve always thought about death. Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you, Aunt Agnes?”

            “Sometimes. At night.” She smiled at Stella. Should she admit that she fretted each orbit of the earth around the sun, bringing her another birthday but not a day closer to a husband or any great accomplishment? No, she would not be ready to leave either, because even if she found her destiny tomorrow it would not leave her the time she wanted to live it.

            “Agnes? What do you think of the Duke’s son?”

            Agnes moved her legs and found that one had gone to sleep. Stretching them both out, she pulled off her shoes and felt the breeze freshen her warm feet. “Lord Phillip?”

            “Yes. I think he’s very unusual. I found him quite interesting.”

            “Did you?”

            “He is so very pleasant, but he seems like a man with a secret.”

            “Really? What do you mean?”

            “I can’t say exactly. But I sense a certain mystery about him. That’s quite attractive in a man.”

            “Indeed!” Agnes watched her niece return to her sketching and could not help admiring the insights of one so young.

            “Did you notice how he observes everything so closely?” Stella resumed. “He’s like an artist himself in that way. Wants to see something from every side, touch it, understand it. I wish my William were more like that.”

            “Ah, poor William,” Agnes smiled.

            “Well, yes, I  wish he were more curious. He seems to think he already understands everything around him. The only thing he has an unlimited capacity to investigate is business—meat-packing methods and transportation options and partnerships. Agnes, when he talks about that to me it’s all I can do to disguise my boredom. It’s so horribly dull!” Stella exclaimed, looking at her aunt. “Why doesn’t he want to talk about art or ideas or anything lively?”

            “I suppose that’s what you have female friends for, Stella. A husband can’t ever be everything you want him to be. Father was much from the same mold as William. Absolutely irrepressible when it came to business and industry. But mother stopped even inviting him to the opera or exhibits in the City. He couldn’t wait to leave and used any spare moment to work the acquaintances he ran into. She went with other ladies and amused herself far better that way.”

            Stella continued to draw silently, glancing at the headstone and penciling in the inscription, Irene Lanham Brown. Widow of James Simon Somerset, lost at sea.  Angels on earth now flown home. Grandma had made it clear that she wanted no mention of Aloysius on her marker. She was sure that he, wretched soul, would spend his eternity where she and James need never run into him.

            “You haven’t told me your opinion of Lord Phillip,” Stella reminded her aunt.

            “My opinion is about the same as yours. He is a keen observer, a student of everything in his own way, especially people. Genuine, sincere. Handsome, you could say. Sometimes childlike. And, I agree, mysterious while giving the outward impression of being totally open.”

            “You say you can’t expect everything in a husband,” Stella repeated accusingly, “but the woman who gets him will have everything she could want, I imagine.”

            Agnes stopped Stella’s hand from sketching. “Be careful, Stella. Be careful where your thoughts  wander.” Stella looked at her in surprise. “There’s much we don’t know about the Duke’s son,” Agnes continued. “What we do know is that he is at least my age and still has no occupation, no way to support a wife and children aside from his father’s benevolence. No matter how fascinating a man is, he must be able to meet that responsibility or he is a poor match for any woman.”

            Stella looked straight at her aunt. “Are you saying that you would not be interested in pursuing a romance with Lord Phillip if you had the chance? That you would walk away from him and wait for some stuffy, fat, dry goods baron to propose?”

            Agnes was silent.

            “Aunt Agnes?”

            Agnes sat back and clasped her hands.

            “He is wonderful, isn’t he?” prodded her niece.

            “I will admit that he does possess some wonderful traits . . .”

            “And you have your own money, so you don’t have to worry about that end of it, if you don’t mind my saying. Aunt Agnes, I hope you don’t think me too bold, but he would be perfect for you.”

            Agnes laughed, a gay and fully alive sound that floated over the graveyard. “I appreciate your thinking about me, really, Stella! You are too dear. But you should know that I have competition.”

            “Who?” Stella leaned forward.

            “At this moment, our enigmatic friend is stirring sugar into his tea at Mrs. Thorne’s.”

            The wind picked up several pages of Stella’s sketchbook and flapped them crazily. Stella closed the book and tucked it beneath her skirt. She pulled her loosened hair from her face and held it from the wind. Looking up at the scudding clouds she asked, “Do you mean Claudia Thorne? The temptress?”

            “The same. He accepted an invitation in my presence—practically invited himself.”

            “But she’s not his type at all!” Stella thought a moment.  “I think he’s going as an observer—you know—wants to see everything, good or bad, and catalog it.”

            A gust, stronger than the others, picked up their hats, which they had set down on the grass, and sent them tumbling across the lawn. After a short chase the ladies captured them, and as their laughter subsided, they noticed Ned shouting from the carriage, waving them over and pointing at the sky. He had finished his errands in Chesterton just in time to save them from a good drenching, for no sooner had they grabbed up their things and climbed into the carriage than huge drops pelted the roof. Ned pulled his hat down hard and urged on the anxious horses. He squinted through the waterfall pouring from his hat and let the horses lead them home.

Chapter 25

In the mail Ned had picked up in town were two more thank-you notes, from the Rockwells and Vera. Agnes stood the notes on her dresser beside the pile of gifts her guests had left in parting. Vera’s gift was as perfect as she had let on: a pair of bookends cast in the likeness of Vulcan and Venus, which she had uncovered in a back-alley bookstore in Manhattan. There was a china serving bowl from the McMeeds, gaudy silver candlesticks from Wilbur and Eleanor, an ivory writing set from the Bairnaughts, a collection of fine teas from the Rockwells, and from the Duke three beautifully bound novels by Agnes’s favorite English author, Charles Dickens. What dear friends I have, Agnes reflected, trailing her fingers over the carefully chosen objects.

            Maria interrupted her reflections by announcing that she had a visitor downstairs.

            Agnes looked warily at her maid. “Not the thorn, I hope,”

            “No, ma’m. It’s Lord Phillip.”

            “Oh!” This was indeed a strange time to call—well past tea and approaching the dinner hour. But it was, after all, the unconventional Phillip.

            “He said it would only take a moment.”

            Agnes felt her heart fall just the tiniest bit, hoping for more. “How do I look?”

            Maria looked her up and down. “That dress looks damp. Let’s change it, and I’ll fix your hair.”

            Agnes turned toward the mirror and laughed. The wind at the cemetery had made a new arrangement of her dark tresses, and she had forgotten to repair them. In five minutes she had changed into a sedate brown dress and Maria had deftly refastened her hair into a simple bun. A last look in the long mirror showed a well-dressed woman in the prime of her life, a well-shaped woman tense with an excitement that could not be hidden. With a nod to Maria and a look of “here we go,” Agnes headed downstairs with measured steps.

            Although the Duke and Phillip had left Brookside only a week earlier, it felt like a month since she had looked into his face. He must be on his way home from the thorn’s, she imagined, and had decided to make a quick stop here. Maybe he was only asking after something he might have left behind. Maybe he was going to tell her that he was off to South America to join an archeological dig. Or maybe his father had put him up to visiting, and this was the shortest way to oblige him.

            She smelled lilacs as she rounded the landing of the main staircase. She found Phillip standing expectantly in the middle of the parlor, cradling in one arm a cascade of deep red lilacs. He smiled brilliantly when she appeared and held the flowers out like a little boy.

            “Lord Phillip, what a wonderful surprise! And what heavenly flowers. Are they from your garden?”

            “Oh, no, father hates anything with a strong scent. He’s allergic. I poached these in a neighbor’s yard.  Aren’t they splendid?”

            Agnes took the bunch and called to Fettles to bring a vase with water, but he appeared magically with the same already in hand. Agnes arranged the bouquet on the center table and put her face into the deep aroma. “These look very much like Mrs. Thorne’s prize-winning variety,” she said rising.

            “Really? Does she win prizes?”

            “Every spring at the Lilac Festival. But she is zealously protective of her bushes and, as far as I know, has never given a sample of them to anyone. She probably fears that someone will graft it onto a shrub and produce a hybrid that will defeat hers. I can’t believe you wrestled these from her.”

            “I simply asked. She tore them right off.”

            “Well, you are a man of uncommon influence, then.”

            They sat down beside a tall window flecked with water in the last light of the gray day. Agnes watched Phillip easily sitting opposite her and resisted the urge to chatter at him. She waited for him to speak. His hair was windblown, and his boots had found some mud along the way. His clothes were well chosen but rumpled.

            “Thank you for seeing me,” he began. “I wanted to ask how you are getting along, now that the house is quiet, and you are no doubt remembering your grandmother. . .  I thought it might have gotten sad.”

            “How kind of you. Yes, it is sad, but fortunately my niece Stella remains, and she is good company. We all need people younger than ourselves around, I think, to keep us from getting stiff and gloomy.”

            “Stiffness gradually falls upon all of us, but I cannot imagine you turning gloomy, no matter how many years might pass.”

            “Oh, you don’t know me so well. I have a rather wide melancholic streak. I’d love to keep Stella here to brighten this whole house, but soon she must no doubt return to her husband in Chicago.”

            Isaiah entered quietly and lit some lamps.

            “So how did you find Mrs. Thorne today—well, I trust?” Agnes ventured.

            Phillip proceeded to give Agnes a full description of Mrs. Thorne’s home (since Agnes herself had never gained admittance) and a summary on the status of the area’s eligible maidens, as told to him.

            “So, what do you think of our illustrious Mrs. Thorne?” Agnes asked cautiously. “You must admit, she is a remarkable beauty.”

            “She is similar to women I have met before. But my visit gave me an opportunity to make some interesting observations. I detected a poison in her more powerful than in most of her type. She is a woman to beware of.”

            “I agree entirely,” Agnes assured him. “I have known her since I was a schoolgirl, and her treachery has only increased. I am always on my guard.”

            Agnes recounted her and Stella’s visit to the cemetery (but not their topic of conversation) and Ned’s timely rescue of them from the storm, and how much she loved a good rain. Fettles cleared his throat in the doorway, which meant that it was nearly time for dinner and would there be a guest.

            “Would you join us for dinner, Lord Phillip?”

            “I am hardly dressed for it,” he laughed, and rose to go. “Another evening?”

            “Tomorrow?”

            “What time?”

            “Eight sharp.”

            “May I bring the lonely Mrs. Thorne?” His eyes danced.

            “No,” Agnes smiled. “I doubt she dines alone. But do bring your father.”

            “He’s away until Friday, I’m afraid. Should we postpone then?”

            Agnes raced through the possible responses and their implications. “I’d rather not.”

            “Until tomorrow, then, Miss Somerset.” Phillip took her hand, kissed it lightly, and walked away. She stood over the captured lilacs and breathed deeply. Fettles let their visitor out into the wet evening just as lightening began to dance across the sky and a long roll of thunder warned of a downpour to come.

            Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in the village of Rama Nagar, another storm raged.

To be continued . . .

Episode 12: Wilbur Points a Finger and Mrs. Thorne Serves Tea

Chapter 22

Just before dawn Agnes and Stella took their turn by Grandma Brown’s bedside, relieving Mrs. Bairnaught.

            “She’s watching something,” said Grandma’s old friend. “Look how her eyes stare off that way. She has been like that all night. I wonder what she sees.”

            Agnes went to the big blue-and-white basin, soaked a fresh washcloth, and wrung the cool water out. Sitting down on the bed, she gently washed her grandmother’s face and hands while the old woman’s good hand played with the lacey edge of the sheet. Her wide, shifting eyes continued to watch the far corner of the ceiling.

            Stella sat down in the padded rocker at the foot of the bed and watched her great-grandmother intently.

            Agnes opened the book she had brought along. “Grandma, I am going to read you a story. Remember how you used to read Aesop’s Fables to us in bed? Well, now it’s my turn.” Agnes thought for a moment that her grandmother was about to look at her, but she only moved her head on the pillow and continued to watch the invisible scene before her.

            Agnes sat beside her and opened the frayed book to a loose page. “Let’s begin with ‘The Frog and the Mouse.’ ‘A young mouse in search of adventure was running along the bank of a pond where lived a Frog . . .” And so she read to her grandmother several of the edifying tales that had many nights sent her and her sister off to sleep picturing sly wolves wearing sheepskins and golden eggs dropping from magical geese.

            Doctor Bingham arrived as promised and made a short examination. Grandma’s heart was racing and her blood pressure had sunk dangerously low. He gave her two days, no more. Agnes left Stella and Nurse Woolsey on duty and went to tell Vera the sad news. The two sat in Vera’s room discussing church services and burial plots, when the nurse appeared at the door.

            “Miss Somerset, your grandmother has passed on.”

            Agnes gasped. “Oh, why did I leave the room? But it was only for a few moments,” she cried, now on her feet, looking from the nurse to Vera, “and the doctor said two days, but if only I had stayed—” 

            The nurse gently stopped her and said she must not blame herself. She had seen many a parent and grandparent wait until the family had left the room to give up their spirit.

            “I think they see it as a final gift to those they love,” she explained. “They spare them the memory of that moment of leaving.” Agnes broke into unrestrained tears, and the nurse took her by the hand and led her like a child to her grandmother’s room. The old saint lay under the cream-colored quilt, the lace-trimmed sheet below her round chin. Her features rested smooth and untroubled, and her hands lay calmly one upon the other.

            Agnes stared at her grandmother, who looked for all the world like a woman merely asleep, as if she would surely wake if they spoke too loudly. Agnes sat down carefully on the bed and stroked once more the soft halo of white around the wrinkled face. She remembered with a rush the hours she had spent with Grandma in the garden looking for caterpillars and learning the names of all the flowers; the patient lessons on etiquette out on the terrace at a well-set table; Grandma’s constant encouragement, even when Agnes had sunk below the surface from the death of both her parents and she felt powerless to carry on her own life, let alone take the family’s entire estate in hand. Now Grandma was gone, too.

            A hush settled on the household, replacing the gaiety of the previous days. Arrangements were quickly made, and they buried Grandma in the new cemetery at the edge of Chesterton, with its winding roads and young gardens. She was a pioneer here, one of the first graves dotting the lawns. The rest of the family lay in the tidy graveyard beside the Presbyterian church in town, but the county declared it full several years ago, shortly before Agnes’s parents were entombed in the marble vault that her father had wisely purchased many years before. Grandma had made it clear years ago that she wanted to be buried with the Somersets, the noble family of her first husband, lost at sea without a marker. She wanted no association with her second husband, who had been buried at his family’s insistence in a showy tomb in Philadelphia’s best cemetery.

            As the guests left the cemetery staff to their task on that gray burying day, more than one observed that it was fortunate, really, that they were all together to pay their last respects, and that Grandma had been fortunate to live her last days among the people dearest to her.

            And so the celebration of Brookside ended. Trunks were packed, train schedules consulted, and guests were driven to the station over the next two days. The weather turned cool and a fine mist drifted down, further laying the festivities to rest.

            Only one guest remained. Young Stella, comfortably installed in the mosaic room, would stay to restore her spirits and paint at her leisure the promised portrait of the rose garden. Vera left promising to return before the end of summer. Mr. Rockwell would return in a month or so to settle matters surrounding Grandma’s will.

            “We will all miss her,” he sighed, putting on his hat to go. “But you should know that you stand to inherit a substantial sum, Agnes. This will be helpful, as the maintenance of Brookside has become somewhat more than your current reserves can handle. You pay the bills, so I know you have been aware of this.”

            Agnes remembered the talk she and Grandma had meant to have along with Mr. Rockwell. “I’ve just remembered something,” said Agnes. “Grandma had wanted to talk with me about some matter that was troubling her, it seems. She died before I could mention it to you. Do you have any idea what it might have been?”

            “None,” admitted Mr. Rockwell. “She said nothing to me.” He reflected a moment. “No, nothing comes to mind. It’s possible that she wanted to make sure that her affairs were quite in order in case anything happened to her. Elderly people have a supernatural sense of these things, I’ve found. Well, take care, my girl.”

            With a warm embrace, Mr. Rockwell left Agnes in the foyer and joined his wife and daughter in the carriage. The firm square of Mrs. Rockwell’s face appeared in the window, and her darkly gloved hand waved good-bye. Agnes watched the black coach, shiny with water, rattle away beneath the long arch of dripping trees.

            Her mind drifted back to the conversation she had with Wilbur a few days earlier. Amid the bustle of funeral arrangements, she had managed to talk with him privately. She would have preferred to have Vera with her, but she did not want Wilbur to feel like he sat before a panel of judges. She knew him: in that setting, he would clamp his mouth shut and wave her off as being nonsensical. Alone, she had hoped to coax some truth from him.

            Once again, she had underestimated Wilbur’s defenses. As they sat in Agnes’s dim study discussing the disposition of Grandma’s personal effects, Agnes carefully mentioned the conversation she had overheard in the garden. Wilbur’s face drained of the smidgeon of color it normally held, and his jaw tightened as he stared at her.

            “So what does it mean, Wilbur?” She held his gaze.

            He rose, stuck both hands into his trouser pockets, and struck a pose that wavered between defiance and trust. “Eleanor is an emotional woman, Agnes. What you heard was part of a lovers’ spat, nothing more.” Wilbur looked at Agnes with a patronizing smile. Agnes found herself distracted, trying to picture the glacial couple as “lovers.”

            Agnes toyed with her tortoiseshell pen. “It seems that Grandma as well was concerned about something.”

            Wilbur inhaled. “You know, our grandmother was not an easy woman to live with. I’m sure you think me harsh, but beneath that sweet exterior was a very stubborn woman. Fussy, too, always twittering about this or that imaginary problem.”

            Agnes fixed him with a cold stare. “Isn’t it a bit early to speak ill of the dead, cousin, even for you?”

            Wilbur straightened and looked away. “Has it occurred to you that Grandma might have wanted to discuss with you the interests of this fellow Lord Phillip?” He sent a challenging look at his surprised cousin. “I’ve noticed the way he looks at you—I’m sure everyone has.”

            “What on earth are you talking about?” Agnes felt the blood rising to her face.

            “Who is he? Does anyone really know him? This story about India, missionary work, smells like so much nonsense. And there are rumors about him, you know, that are not pleasant. I hope you are not considering his attention.”

             “Wilbur, I am quite capable of handling myself where Lord Phillip is concerned, or anyone else. I will thank you to not trouble yourself about my personal affairs.” Agnes swallowed, almost at a loss for words. “And furthermore, I doubt—“

            She was about to point out that Grandma would have had no reason to invite Mr. Rockwell to a discussion of her granddaughter’s love affairs, but she was interrupted by Eleanor striding into the room. Clutching two silken leashes, she implored Wilbur’s help with the dogs, who had gotten into the kitchen scraps and eaten, as she put it, “God only knows what.” It occurred to Agnes to ask Eleanor about the mystery, but since relations had apparently thawed between her and her husband, it would be useless.

            Agnes excused herself and hastened to the refuge of her own room. From the window she watched the couple leave her home. Wasn’t it just like Wilbur to dodge the truth by pointing a finger at someone else? How dare he even talk about Phillip—he did not deserve to stand in the same room with the Duke’s son, much less toss accusations against him. One thing was clear: Phillip made Wilbur uncomfortable. Was it just the silent reproach Wilbur felt from any God-fearing man? Or was it distinctly more than that? For the first time, Agnes wondered if the last thing her cousin might want was a new man in the family, a man to look after her, a man who might ask questions.

            .

Chapter 23

The afternoon that Phillip came to tea in Mrs. Thorne’s parlor, he found the room filled with a deep red variety of her late-blooming lilacs. They stood in fat Chinese vases, their heads lolling together sleepily. Their perfume filled his nostrils and almost drove him to open a window for relief. For even on this warm day, Claudia kept all the windows fastened behind their heavy purple drapes.

            Looking around the lavish room, Phillip remembered Agnes’s recent words regarding Mrs. Thorne. As it happened, Claudia’s new widowhood had left her free to entertain friends and occasional lovers to her heart’s content. Her dalliances were no secret and somehow made her more popular at functions than not. Society ladies watched what she wore and followed suit. Gentlemen, both married and single, flirted openly with her, but most, if they were to tell the truth, would flee in terror if she ever turned her complete attention upon them.

            The Wednesday afternoon had grown sullen. The day had started up fresh and sunny, but now the breeze had died and the sealed parlor felt close and moist. The table was set for tea, with plates of meringues, petit fours, and tiny cucumber sandwiches. Phillip approached the impeccable display, raised a pink-iced petit four to his nose, and swallowed it nearly whole. He was contemplating a second when Claudia entered.

            “Lord Phillip!” she enthused, holding out both hands with their perfect fingers unmarred by the gentlest toil. “How delightful of you to come see me.”

            Phillip, with a short bow, took the hands offered and smiled at her. Golden hair, garnet earrings—they go with the lilacs—perfectly carved face, a little dark under the large gray eyes—maybe we’re not sleeping well—and an unnaturally wide smile. A hunter of exotic prey, he concluded.

            “I hope the lilacs are not too much for you,” she apologized. “They are particularly rich on a heavy day like this.” Claudia assumed the usual compliments would follow.

            “Not at all,” he returned simply, and waited.

            “Well,” said Claudia after an almost imperceptible pause, “do sit down.”

            Phillip drew her chair back. As Claudia lowered herself into it, sweeping her luxurious gray silk to one side, he was confronted with the lustrous fullness of her hair, and he had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it. Instead he went around to sit opposite the beauty and folded his hands on the table. Claudia rang a silver bell at her elbow, bringing in a smartly dressed young man bearing a steaming pot under a quilted cover. He began to pour, but his mistress waved him away.

            “Allow me,” she smiled, pouring the perfectly steeped brew into Phillip’s delicate blue cup. “Cream and sugar?”

            “Both.”

            Claudia lifted a cube from a silver bowl with a tiny set of tongs and dropped it in without splashing, then poured an exact ration of cream. She did the same for herself and invited him to try the sweets.

            “Thank you,” he said, carefully selecting a miniature masterpiece . “Your petit fours are excellent.” To her look of puzzlement, he explained that he had already sampled one before she joined him.

            The tinkling laugh was released. “How refreshing! A man who sees what he wants and takes it.”

            “Well, I wouldn’t generalize if I were you,” he warned, carefully dunking a meringue as his hostess watched in well-managed amazement. “That might have been totally out of character—I might have succumbed to my urge only because of your cakes’ utterly irresistible presentation and my having missed lunch.”

            Claudia rang for the servant again and ordered a cold lunch be brought in for her guest.

            “You must know that you are all the talk, Lord Phillip,” Claudia tossed out conspiratorially. “Handsome young missionary returns from India, eligible bachelor, son of the Duke. I feel quite giddy to have a private audience with you.”

            “I’m the newest thing around, I suppose, and that makes for conversation, doesn’t it?” Phillip put two dainty sandwiches into his mouth, chewed them briefly, and swallowed. “Are they making up stories about me yet?” he asked innocently.

            “Dozens. It seems you brought back a fortune in gems and are in the process of deciding on investments. Also you had three wives, served as translator to a tribal warlord, and you left the country ahead of a Hindu posse who was intent on having your head. To mention only a few.”

            “All true,” replied Phillip, pouring himself more tea. “It grieved me to leave the wives behind, but time was precious. But I left them each a handsome dowry—those gems you mentioned—so I’m confident they will have no trouble finding another husband to take my place.”

            “I doubt that. You impress me as a man not easily replaced.”

            “No at all. India is teaming with pale-skinned Westerners hoping to marry a native and be treated like a king. Which is a situation not available to the average man on this side of the world.” Phillip sat back and took in the room’s furnishings, the bold colors, the oils in heavy frames. “Have you lived here many years, Mrs. Thorne?”

            “Oh,” she said, “my whole life. Mr. Thorne and I inherited Beaujour from my father. The place took a lot of freshening, I can tell you. Too many years in the hands of a widower, dear man, with other matters to tend to.”

            “So you have made it your own by now?”

            “For the most part. There are a pair of dingy bedrooms still to address, and the gardens are a work in progress.”

            “I should like to see your gardens. I should like to see your house as well, if that would be possible. I find that a house says a great deal about its inhabitants.”

            Claudia shifted in her chair, uncertain how to respond. The cowed servant arrived with a plate of food, which Phillip finished off quickly while listening to Mrs. Thorne’s theories on interior decorating. Names dropped from her lips, intimate friends, she noted, who had assisted her in resurrecting the house from the ashes of yesterday’s fashions. Among them were several artists whose works now hung on the repapered walls only by virtue of her knowing them personally—their paintings were virtually impossible to procure.

            Their tea concluded, Claudia led her guest through polished halls, parlors, library, music room, and finally climbed to the newly restored ballroom on the third floor. Phillip stood still, gazing slowly around at the gleaming floors, pale yellow walls, monstrous chandeliers, and marble statues tucked into niches. “Do you give many balls?”

            “As many as I can,” she replied, squeezing his arm in her enthusiasm. “I love nothing better than entertaining—well, almost nothing.” He looked at her, but she was moving on. “A walk through the gardens now?”

            As they descended, she observed, “I have done all the talking so far and have not yet heard your story of India. What can I get you to tell me?”

            “It was hot. You tumble back and forth—now sopping wet, now dry as death. I made no converts to speak of. I failed to bring back a fortune in gems or anything else. And here I am, several years older and nothing to show for it.”

            “That’s all?”

            “I have some anecdotes, but most are not fit for a lady’s ears.”

            They were passing outside onto a pebble path that led into a formal garden, strictly outlined by a low row of dense boxwoods. Overhead, heavy clouds in mixed hues of gray moved sluggishly on their long journey to somewhere. Claudia realized that she would not get any stories that day, but she knew how to wait.

            “So now that you are back, what do you plan to do?”

            “I’ve no idea,” Phillip replied cheerfully.

            “How was your stay at Brookside? Isn’t Agnes a darling?”

            “Miss Somerset is an admirable woman. I found that my father had been right about her in every way.”

            “Yes, I have always admired her myself. Such a strong woman, managing everything herself without a husband. And at her age, she may well stay single. That is a pity.”

            Phillip was silent.

            “And what about you, Lord Phillip? Have any of our Chesterton ladies caught your eye?”

            “Are there any you would recommend?”

            As they walked, Claudia proceeded to enumerate the eligible daughters of the best local families with complete descriptions of their physical superlatives and financial standings, leaving out no detail whether good or bad, which was, as she said, the only responsible thing to do.  By the time she finished her account of how the oldest daughter of the town banker had recently been jilted (made a public spectacle of when her fiancé turned out to be the only guest who failed to attend the engagement party), they had arrived back at the front of the house. A chill wind had picked up, blowing Phillip’s hair about and filling Claudia’s skirts.

            “Rain coming in,” predicted Phillip, looking up at the darkening sky. “I’ve enjoyed our visit very much.”

            “Then come back,” said Claudia. “Any time. If I don’t see you soon enough, I might just throw a ball to get you back. You do enjoy fancy dress balls, don’t you?”

            “An event I would not miss,” he assured her. “Would you mind,” he asked, looking approvingly at a nearby lilac bush heavy with blooms, “if I took a handful of these magnificent flowers with me?”

            “Not at all,” Claudia cooed. She broke off several twiggy stems and handed the luscious heads to him.

            He took them carefully from her and bowed, watching her eyes. His coachman sprang forward to open the carriage door. Claudia began to say one thing more, but he was gone. 

To be continued . . .