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 . . .