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.