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 . . .