Episode 20: Claudia Outdoes Herself

Chapter 38

A small, dark man stepped in front of the foursome, extending the head of a massive snake as though for approval. The serpent lay motionless across the man’s bare shoulders and hung almost to the floor. Without opening its jaws, it shot out a crimson tongue. Both ladies recoiled, clutching their escorts, and the little man smiled. Lord Phillip said something in Hindi, which caused the man to lose his smile and wander away toward another group of new arrivals.

            “How hideous! What did you say to him?” asked Stella.

            “I told him that the serpent will be crushed beneath the heel.”

            “Good show,” put in the Duke, adjusting his turban. “I didn’t think she was going to bring in a bunch of natives with their menageries. Questionable taste, I feel, especially with the ladies present.”

            “You will find,” explained Agnes, “that Claudia likes to shock more than anything. Good taste is a halter she has never worn.”

            The group pondered these words as they took in the ballroom. Phillip hardly recognized the space he had been shown just a few weeks before. Tonight, the three chandeliers dripping with prisms blazed above their heads. Every statue in its niche wore a rich silk wrap and was hung with garish flowers. The papier-mâché elephant towered over guests at the far end of the room, and tall potted plants created tropical islands where caged birds hung, brilliant specimens unknown in North America.

            The two couples separated to make their rounds of the guests and greet acquaintances. Phillip lost no time pushing his cape behind his shoulders and pulling his mask down to hang at his collar. Agnes looked him up and down, shivered inside, and said simply, “I am so happy to be with you.” Phillip walked her forward murmuring at her ear “You honor me, madam.”

            Agnes was glad they had come. What could Claudia do to her in front of so many people? Why, they had greeted the governor and his wife on their way in and had already talked with several members of the state legislature and kingpins of local industry. Surely this was a night for Claudia to show off, nothing more. The small orchestra struck up a Tchaikovsky waltz. Phillip and Agnes lightly took hold of each other and stepped into the dance. They moved as one, barely touching the polished floor, unconscious of the couples twirling around them. They emerged from their reverie only once, when Phillip’s father collided with them as he led the patient Stella through this dance he had never quite mastered.

            From time to time from the corner of her eye, Agnes thought she caught Claudia watching her. But before she could direct a look toward the mysterious woman, the hostess had moved her attention elsewhere, now laughing gaily, now slipping from sight, now showing her gleaming bangles to admirers.

            The evening flew by, and midnight approached. Stella and the Duke prepared to leave, having pushed their fatigue aside for as long as possible. It was agreed that they would depart after the Indian tumblers performed on the front lawn, scheduled for the stroke of twelve. Claudia threaded her way through the guests, reminding them to congregate on the front terraces to watch the performance. By five minutes to the hour, the ballroom was empty. Ladies took up their positions outside at the marble railings with their gentlemen behind, the smaller men shifting between the great hairdos and hats as best they could. Agnes, Phillip, Stella, and the Duke maneuvered their way to the top of the stairs that led down in a graceful curve to the drive, gaining a good view of the improvised stage beyond. To the north, lightening flashed high and silent but brought no rain, and the day’s heat continued to hang over the costumed crowd.

            Out on the lawn, just outside a ring of torches, seven lithe men stretched their limbs and hopped about in preparation for the feats they were on the verge of demonstrating. Others sat in a small huddle with instruments in their laps. They all wore loose pants, gathered above the ankle, and bright-colored vests with no shirts. Their hair hid itself under tightly wrapped green turbans.

            “She certainly went to great lengths, didn’t she?” remarked the Duke. “Where do you imagine she found these chaps?”

            “I overheard that she ordered them from the City,” put in Stella. “You can get anything in Manhattan, I understand.”

            “Claudia has lots of connections, some rather unconventional,” added Agnes. “Clearly money was no object tonight.”

            All talk quieted as Claudia emerged into the ring of firelight, faced her guests, and raised her arms. Her sari smoldered in the light of the torches, and no one there could be insensible to her outrageous beauty. Every line of her face, every gesture, reflected her certain knowledge of this fact.

            “Mesdames et Messieurs,” she called out. “A thousand thanks for joining us tonight for a journey through the Secrets of India. I hope you have enjoyed our special performers tonight.”

            At this point she waved her arm once and the snake-bearer emerged from the shadows and paraded before the crowd, holding out his reptilian companion to best advantage. A contortionist followed, who propelled himself in indescribable ways along the same route, inciting both fascination and revulsion. Behind him danced three ladies in exotic and revealing costumes, who throughout the evening had met with favor from the gentlemen and with enmity from their wives. Last of all came the magician, who had stunned Agnes earlier with the implausible objects he could make appear and disappear from his hands and mouth. The guests applauded the procession enthusiastically, twittering with anticipation for the main attraction.

            “Thank you,” Claudia shouted. “Now, I hope you will enjoy the Troupe of Seven Wonders, here to entertain you from their home in Bombay, a group that has amazed audiences around the world. Gentlemen . . .” With a gesture toward the performers, Claudia glided out of the circle of light and two drums began an urgent beat. Into the brilliant glow ran the seven tumblers, who, as they moved, gave the appearance of weighing nothing. They ran around in a sort of dance, weaving this way and that, jumping over one another or using each other as human springboards into impossibly high somersaults. An Asian flute started up, then a mournful sitar.

            The Seven Wonders formed a line and, as one, sprang into a back flip, then a front flip, then became a tumbling chaos of color like a fast-turning kaleidoscope in the wildly dancing light.

            So rapt was the crowd that no one noticed a carriage trundling up the drive until it pulled in front of the house, halting between the audience on the terraces and the performers whirling on the lawn. The Seven Wonders gradually came to a stop, unsure whether to continue, and looked to their client for direction, but she had vanished. They stood breathing heavily and looking at one another while the music sputtered out. The guests murmured in puzzlement.

            In truth, the main attraction had just arrived.

Chapter 39

The carriage door was thrown open from within, revealing a man’s arm, berry brown below the edge of his sleeve. Then the arm’s owner appeared, wild-eyed, crouching in the opening. The man jumped to the ground and straightened, showing himself to be of middle age, stout but erect, with a confusion of gray hair about his head. He wore a rumpled tunic, loose pants, and sandals. As he stood there, his eyes scanned the gathering intently. A thin female stepped down carefully behind him and lifted out a small child about six months old. In her dingy sari, she cringed against the carriage, holding the child close. The three travelers stood on the drive of Beaujour, facing the crowd, as though transported magically between worlds. 

            In the great arch of the mansion’s front door, tucked between the two raised terraces, Claudia stood with her butler. An honest man not long in her employ, he had seen enough things in the last few weeks to make him already regret accepting the position. Now seeing the bizarre disruption going on in the driveway, he started forward to demand an explanation from the interlopers. But Mrs. Thorne put a firm hand on his arm and held him back with a look.

            Meanwhile, at the top of the steps, one man’s heart had frozen as the disheveled man emerged from the carriage. Agnes had felt Phillip clutch her shoulder and pull her against himself with a sharp gasp.

            “What is it?” whispered Agnes, looking up into his ashen face. Her slight movement attracted the traveler’s attention, who cried out from below, “There he is!” Then pointing in fury toward Phillip, the man nearly screamed, “Come here and tell me where my daughter is!”

            Stunned silence gripped the assemblage. The Seven Wonders and their musicians drifted around the carriage, keeping their distance, to see what was happening. All eyes turned upon Phillip and Agnes. She held his hand and searched his face, but he pulled away. Slowly, maneuvering through the crowd, he descended the stairs.

            “Where are you going?” demanded the Duke, but Phillip ignored him. He stared fixedly at the wild man as the onlookers pulled back to let him pass, too intrigued to even whisper. He walked toward the man, and the only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath his measured steps. He stopped within a few feet of the visitor.

            “Where is my daughter?” demanded the man. “Give her to me. I found you at last, you see? For a year I am looking for you—now I found you.”

            Phillip spoke in a low, even voice carried by the warm night breeze. “I cannot help you, Dhanesh. I left Rupa with the nuns.”

            “The nuns! We went to Rheims. This is all that was left from my daughter at Rheims.” Rupa’s father grabbed the arm of the attendant and pulled her and the boy close. “Look at him. She left him behind. I know she came here to be with you, you scoundrel. Where is she? Where do you hide her?” Dhanesh’s face was by now only inches from Phillip’s. Phillip stood planted like a stake.

            “She is not here. I left her at Rheims and have not seen her since, I swear to you. When did she leave the convent?”

            “Half a year ago.”

            “And she told no one where she was going?”

            “Here, she came here!”

            “Did the nuns tell you that?”

            “They don’t have to tell me. I know.”

            “Nonsense! She is not here. But even if I knew where she was, I would not tell you.”

            Dhanesh grabbed fistfuls of Phillip’s shirtfront and stared madly into his eyes. At this the Duke, who had until now stayed with the ladies and strained to hear the dialog below, put a hand on his sword hilt and pushed his way down the stairs. Dhanesh saw him coming, a middle-aged maharajah with a tin sword banging against one leg, and for a moment the puzzled Indian froze. The duke halted beside his son and glowered at the stranger, whose face had gone from rage to wonder. Suddenly aware of his costume, the Duke snatched the turban from his head and tucked it under his arm.

            “Who are you?” he demanded. “What’s the meaning of this?”

            Dhanesh looked from the father to the son, still holding Phillip fast. “Father,” said Phillip, “this is Dhanesh, the man I stayed with in India before returning home. He thinks I have abducted his daughter.”

            “Abducted his daughter? Rubbish! What would we want with his daughter?”

            Somehow, from beyond his fury, an understanding began to creep over Dhanesh that his daughter might not be here. No, she would not be good enough for these men to keep—only to use up and leave behind. He had traveled thousands of miles over land and water and come to a dead end in this strange place, on this night, even with the hunted man now in his grasp. He stared up at the glistening faces, the gaudy costumes, the glowing house, all wrapped in stunned silence. Tears began to fill his dark eyes and spill down his cheeks.

            The Duke shifted his weight. Whoever this man was, he had lost his daughter. Embarrassed and pained for him, he slipped a hand inside his jacket and produced a handkerchief. Dhanesh looked stupidly at the neatly folded square of white linen, then turned his gaze on Phillip. He spoke haltingly as he slowly loosened his grip and dropped his arms. “At first, I thought I must kill this bastard child. But he is my blood. What can I do?” He looked to the Duke as though for an answer, then back to the young man. “You have ruined my family. You have disgraced us.” The words came out more pleadingly than angry.

            “You ruined your family,” Phillip replied sternly. “You allowed your wife and sons to abuse that girl mercilessly. Then, Dhanesh, then you used her to connect yourself with a royal family—even if she had to marry the devil to do it.”

            “You have dishonored us!” Dhanesh cried with renewed fury.

            “I did not! I swear by all that’s holy, I never trespassed on your daughter’s honor.”

            “She was almost married—only two weeks until the ceremony and you kidnapped her.”

            “I only tried to save her from the fate you had arranged. And it was she who came to me for help, Dhanesh. There was no kidnapping.”

            Confused, Dhanesh grabbed the wide-eyed baby and held him up to Phillip. “Look at this. This is yours. I see you in his eyes, his skin, his soul. I curse this child and I give him to you. I am finished!” The words rang out in a wail, and he pushed the child into Phillips’ arms. “I will go home now, but I have no home. My house has fallen and my sons hang their heads in shame.” Dhanesh looked around like a man surveying the field of battle, where his cause is lost and he is the last man, barely standing. He had come to the end of his mission, this quest that had driven him for over a year, and now, with nothing left to do and no road ahead, he could only turn back the way he had come.

            Phillip patted the frightened child and extended him to the woman, who stepped forward to take him. But Dhanesh stopped her.

            Phillip transferred the tiny boy to the crook of one arm, where the child grabbed the hanging mask and pulled it to his little mouth. Phillip put a hand on his accuser’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Dhanesh.” The spent man did not pull back. “You were good to me. I am sorry you have lost your daughter, I truly am. But my friend, you have only yourself to blame. This is not my child, though. You must believe me.” He untied his mask with one hand, surrendering it to the baby, and gently held the boy out to his grandfather.

            Dhanesh, strangely calm, looked past the baby and into Phillip’s eyes. “What have I done for this to happen to me? How do I anger Vishnu to punish me this way?” Slowly he wiped his eyes with a sleeve and looked at the baby. “The nuns named him Henri. Call him what you want.”

            Dhanesh turned and climbed into the carriage. The attendant tugged his sleeve and indicated the child, but he waved his hand impatiently and pulled her inside. The coachman shut the door, exchanged a quick word with his passengers, and climbed up to his seat. Phillip, still holding the child, watched the driver slap the reins and direct the carriage back down the long drive, its shiny black sides glinting ominously between the rows of red lanterns. He looked down with wonder at the baby in his arms, who held the soggy mask in one hand while fingering Phillip’s pearly buttons with the other.

            In the grand doorway, Claudia let out a long, slow breath. Her ball had achieved perfection.

To be continued . . . 

Episode 19: Phillip Shows His Hand, and the Four Friends Enter Mrs. Thorne's Mysterious Subcontinent

Chapter 36

In the whole history of that strange phenomenon known as fancy dress balls, no one has enjoyed the sport more than young Stella Moll. So it never entered her mind to decline Claudia’s invitation just because she was in a family way, even if it did raise some eyebrows. A gifted seamstress as well as an artist, Stella had made several of her own costumes from the age of 13, including a pirate queen, a Russian gypsy, and a wood nymph. She had advised her aunt that their costumes for Mrs. Thorne’s ball should be lightweight, given the season, and colorful. She felt confident that she could gracefully drape her own widening figure, given enough chiffon, as well as devise something suitable for her aunt.

            Agnes’s enthusiasm did not go as far as her niece’s. She had accepted Claudia’s invitation but did not feel like extending herself to procure an elaborate gown or run the risk of appearing foolish in an attempt to fulfill the night’s theme. Even Stella’s pouting could not sway Agnes from her position.

            “So what are you planning?” asked Stella, rising from her seat at the easel and bracing her lower back. She had been painting a spectacular arrangement of rhododendron as it stood on the old piano, washed by the morning sun. The supply of art paper she had brought along was nearly exhausted since all around her she found subjects begging to be painted—a corner of the garden after the rain, the terrace at sunset, the splashing fountain amid a riot of red roses.

            “My dark blue gown from the big dinner should do quite nicely,” replied her aunt, randomly pushing down some ivory keys. “I haven’t worn it in public before.”

            “But it’s a costume ball—you’ll need to do something to it, you know.”

            “Who says I must play along with Claudia’s ‘Secrets of India’?”

            “If you don’t make any effort you might be seen as a humbug,” cautioned her niece.

            “Nothing to fear," Agnes laughed, "that word has already gone out.”

            “Really, Aunt Agnes, won’t you let me create something for you?”

            “Stella, you will have your hands full creating your own gown.”

            By the end of the conversation, Agnes had agreed to let Stella sew a moon and stars from silvery damask and attach them to her dark gown, allowing her to be technically in costume using the tried-and-true allegory of Night. “After all,” observed Stella, “India has her nights, and night is everywhere the perfect place for secrets to be born.”

            That evening the ladies revealed their costume plans to Lord Phillip and his father over dinner. Agnes observed that gentlemen had the easy end of dress balls, being obliged to appear in nothing more imaginative than their regular good clothes and a small mask. Stella felt that the gentlemen should make some effort at decoration so as to be in keeping with their female partners. (With Phillip pledged as Agnes’s partner, the Duke had offered to accompany Stella. Although he told his son that it was simply right that he spare the lady from attending unescorted, he had become increasingly absorbed in preparations for the evening, sending out for a tailor and consulting illustrations in historical journals.)

            “Who says that I am not honoring the spirit of the evening?” asked Phillip. “I shall appear in a black silk domino from head to foot—I found an exceptionally nice one in father’s trunk yesterday. And I’ve picked up a dark blue mask to complete the mystery.”

            Stella stared, then glanced at Agnes. “A domino? I don’t think I’ve seen one of those since I was a little girl.”

            “Yes, they were all the rage forty years ago,” said the Duke. “I wore that cape as a young man to the first ball I attended with Phillip’s dear mother. Never could bring myself to throw it away. And here it comes, pressed into service again. Capital idea!” he cried, waving his dinner roll at them.

            Stella tried again. “But as this is fancy dress, do you think that the plainness of a domino—“ She was cut short by a look from Agnes, which sent her stumbling in a new direction. “I’m sure, Lord Phillip, that you will be striking, and a wonderful complement to Agnes’s starry Night.”

            Dinner concluded, the Duke urged Stella to show him her recent paintings, and the two graciously left Phillip and Agnes alone in the dining room. The two sweethearts walked out onto the terrace and stood on the far edge looking at the night sky, each with an arm around the other. Agnes confessed that she was increasingly nervous about the ball. Phillip squeezed her tighter and murmured that he would be there to protect her, and this filled her with a calm and a gratitude that she could not remember feeling. To have a man protecting you—what a delicious position for a woman to be in. And she knew Phillip said it without condescension but only from devotion. She gave in to the sweet feeling and looked up into his eyes, so soft yet so sharply awake. Closing her eyes, she let him kiss her long and tenderly on the lips.

            Phillip pulled back at last and gazed at her, running one finger around her moonlit face. “Agnes Eileen Somerset.”

            “Yes, Phillip George Aspen.”

            “May I call on you tomorrow morning?”

            “Whatever for?” she asked limply, still holding his gaze.

            “I have a question you may have the answer to.”

            “Well, why don’t you ask me now?”

            “I cannot. I am not . . . completely prepared.” His lips brushed her ear. 

            “I wish you would try.” Their voices were no more than whispers. “Otherwise how will I sleep, wondering all night through what your question could be?”

            Phillip drank in a long draught of the rich evening air. “Come along.” He pulled her behind him and the two broke into a run toward the dark garden. They did not stop until he had led them clear to the other end and around the hedge, to the special bench between the lovelorn gods. They sat down facing each other and he took both her hands in his.

            Agnes studied Phillip’s face while her heart beat like the hammer of a blacksmith in her chest. She felt lightheaded and struggled to catch her breath. Phillip was perched on the edge of the seat like one ready to spring up at any moment. She waited for him to speak. With an impatient sigh he let go of her hands, rose, and began walking back and forth in front of her.

            “Agnes, I have had many false starts in life. You know that. I have hidden nothing from you. I stand to inherit my father’s estate, but God willing, that is a long way off. We have bought land a few miles north—I told you about it, to farm, and I intend to make a comfortable profit from that, although surely nothing extravagant. I cannot pretend that I deserve you in any way, either by virtue of fortune or character. But I love you like nothing I have ever imagined.” He sat back down and ran his hands down both sides of her neck and shoulders, then took her hands again and studied them. “I can barely breathe when I am near you.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I admire you more than I can tell you. Of course, if your father were alive, I would be asking him, but as things are, I come to you directly. My father and I have discussed it, and he has the very highest regard for you, so he is completely behind us.”

            Phillip paused and watched the face of his beloved. “I don’t need your answer now, but I beg you to consider my offer.”

            Agnes reached up and smoothed his forehead. “But my dear Phillip, what is the offer?”

            “What is it? I thought I said.”

            Agnes shook her head.

            “Good Lord.  My dear Agnes, here it is: I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. We have not known each other long, I admit that, only a few weeks, really, but it seems I have known you for years. And time is not standing still for us, is it? Every day away from you seems wasted.” He got to his feet and spoke to the fields below them. “I want to wake every morning and see you even before the sunlight. I want to hold your hands and look at you any time for as long as I like. . . and hear your voice before I close my eyes at night . . . I want to ask your advice and eat with you and make your bath and, if God blesses us, give you children—you would be a wonderful mother,” he added warmly, taking his seat once more. “Agnes, my question is, will you be my bride and live with me every day for as long as we are on this earth? Would you?”

            Agnes’s tears shone in twin lines down her cheeks. She put her arms around Phillip’s neck and gathered him to her. For several minutes she could not find the breath to speak, but let herself cry quietly against him. He encircled her with his arms and rested his face against her hair. At last she straightened and began to dry her eyes on her sleeve. Phillip searched his pockets for a handkerchief but, finding none, braced himself and waited.

            Agnes sighed and sniffled. “You must understand,” she said, pinching the pleats of her skirt, “that you don’t really know me. I am given to spells of gloom that turn me quite ugly at least once a month. I haven’t as much money as you may think. And my time for having children draws short, I’m afraid. You need to understand this.” She raised her eyes to his.

            Phillip leaned back as a perplexed smile lit his face. “Are you trying to talk me out of it? That job is usually left to well-meaning friends.”

            Agnes uttered a short, gasping laugh. “No, I am not trying to talk you out of it. I don’t know what I should do if you changed your mind. But are you sure, Phillip?”

            Phillip took her face in his hands and drew closer, then closer, and pressed his mouth to hers in a way that left no fragment of doubt. When he released her, she put her lips to his ear and whispered over and over the word he had prayed to hear: yes, I will marry you—yes, yes, yes.

Chapter 37        

Of course, no one must know. One summer was a scandalously short time to be acquainted before a betrothal. Agnes and Phillip agreed to keep their promise a secret until spring. They would attend the ball as interested friends—even romantically inclined friends—but with nothing more than the usual affection they displayed in public. But the excitement was almost more than Agnes could bear, and she imagined that everyone would see the beautiful words bride to be written across her shining features. She must not even tell Stella or Vera, which would be hard indeed.

            Two dizzying days passed, and the date of the ball arrived. The weather fit Claudia’s theme perfectly. They might well be in Hyderabad, with the mercury at eighty-nine degrees and a stifling humidity dampening everything. Throughout the afternoon most of Brookside’s rooms stood deserted as staff, having dispatched their most necessary duties, were allowed to sit languidly under shade trees or play cards in the cool of the cellar. Dahlia served a simple dinner of cold meats, boiled eggs, and potato salad, which Agnes, Stella, Phillip, and the Duke ate on the terrace.

            “Terrible luck,” observed the Duke, “to have this miserable heat the night of the festivities. One hardly feels like putting on a costume or dancing.”

            “We may be relieved by rain,” said his son, observing the sky. “Those clouds to the north look like they shall do something before the night is out. I smell a storm coming.”

            Stella shifted in her chair. “The only thing worse than a warm costume is a wet costume.”

            “We shall not let that happen to you, my lady,” the Duke assured her, brandishing a forkful of potato. “Phillip and I will shelter both you ladies under umbrellas, one in each hand, if needed.”

            As the red sun sank, the foursome pushed back their chairs and went in to put on their costumes. Marie helped Agnes into her magnificent starry gown, dusting her mistress generously with powder before closing her into it. Mrs. Williams tucked Stella into the dark orange dress the young artist had fashioned from yards of misty chiffon, which molded lightly around her young bosom and fell in airy folds to her slippers. With a short veil and satin vest, she was transformed into an Afghan princess ready to invade her neighbor to the south. She was the perfect accompaniment to the Duke, who had agreed to become the legendary Lion of Punjab, complete with a curving tin sword hanging at his side. Phillip wrapped his father’s head in a black turban below which his gray side whiskers bristled impressively. For his own part, Phillip combed his hair and grabbed his domino and mask; he was ready for the ball.

            The Duke’s carriage stood waiting for them as they emerged into the tropical dusk. The trees etched their dark outline against the violet and orange sky, and the insects of the night began to intone their habitual warnings. With minor difficulties the party hoisted themselves into the conveyance, being careful with the ladies’ generous skirts and making allowances for the Duke’s sword. Despite her misgivings, Agnes felt a delicious thrill as she rode through the warm night, seated across from the most fascinating man in the world, a man who loved her, a man who made her heart stop as she looked at him, and she could not help squeezing Stella’s hand.

            “My dear,” she said, looking at her niece with a smile, “this ball will put you well past your usual bedtime. I’m afraid you’ll tire yourself terribly.”

            “Then simply lay me on a divan until you are all ready to leave,” returned Stella. “I will not be the cause of anyone’s going home early!”

            The Duke patted Stella’s knee. “This princess will surely tire no sooner than I. These two,” he waved a finger toward the fiancés, “can gambol about all night, I’ll wager, dancing until dawn. You and I can take the carriage home when we’re spent and send it back for them. Though I don’t envy the driver his wait.”

            In no time it seemed they had covered the three miles between the two homes and turned up the drive to Beaujour. Red lanterns lit their way to the house that sat throbbing with irresistible danger, ablaze against the black sky. Carriages choked the narrow driveway in front as they discharged their passengers. The guests stepped out gingerly in glittering costumes, calling to acquaintances, laughing, shaking hands, and kissing powdered cheeks. Music drifted down from the third floor ballroom, and Agnes felt her heart quicken as she imagined dancing with her escort. Then her breath stopped. In the wide-open doorway, silhouetted against the yellow glare, stood what had to be Claudia. Her outline alone could rob a man of his senses. She advanced to meet Agnes’s party as they came up the broad steps, and Agnes could see the shocking beauty of her silk costume and boldly made-up face.  Phillip squeezed Agnes’s hand in either sympathy or fear, she could not guess which, as their hostess broke into a luxurious smile.

            “Oh, don’t you look festive,” exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, taking them all in with her gaze. “A domino, Lord Phillip,” she went on, looking at him slyly. “How charmingly sentimental. And this lovely young lady must be the niece.” She looked so intensely at Stella that the poor thing blushed a deep pink.

            “Claudia, this is my niece Stella Moll from Chicago,” Agnes explained. “She is the wife of William Moll.”

            “Moll of the stockyard fame?” asked Claudia, widening her black-lined eyes and extending a limp hand.

            “Yes,” Stella spoke up with a challenge in her voice and gave the extended hand a brief but certain shake. “I am flattered that you know of my family and very grateful that you included me in your invitation. It’s so nice to meet the woman I have heard so much about.”

            “Indeed,” returned Claudia, with a short, limp shake of Stella’s hand. “Well, I like to keep up with who’s who. You and the Duke make quite a pair tonight. This is the most darling dress! My dear Duke, you look devastating in that turban. And you are …?

            “The Lion of Punjab, Madam,” declared the Duke, drawing his sword to everyone’s alarm. Claudia darted an inquiring glance at the others.

            “Maharajah, Madam, “the Duke explained, “and conqueror, ruler of the independent state of Punjab.   Accompanied by her highness, the Princess of Afghanistan, lately acquired.”

            “And Agnes is the Night Sky,” put in Stella, unasked.

            “Of course,” said Claudia, taking Phillip’s free arm and leading them the rest of the way up the steps. “She can join the other Night Skies already inside.”

            It was true. Before they reached the third floor and Claudia drifted away, they crossed a pale young woman in a black dress wearing a halo of silver stars as well as a stout woman in deep violet whose tiara supported a teetering crescent moon. The Duke took a moment to observe in a low tone to both Stella and Agnes that neither of the other Nights could compare to Agnes’s magnificent gown with its application of celestial bodies. He also assured them that the decision to forego a headdress had clearly been a sound one.

            Stella whispered back that she did not much like Mrs. Thorne or her comments on their costumes and understood now her aunt’s warnings. But Stella was at that moment startled out of any further observations.

To be continued . . .

Episode 18: Love Blooms While Claudia Makes Her Plans

Chapter 34

Agnes was a new woman. All the staff at Brookside agreed. While still the vigilant mistress of the manor, she displayed a healthy distraction. Something larger inhabited her now, and the affairs of the estate were details that she faithfully tended rather than the axis on which her world turned.

            She and Phillip saw each other several times a week. He would stop in on his way to one place or another and often drop in again on the way home to deposit an offering. One day it was a bouquet of small white roses; another time, smoked clams that he insisted they sit down and eat immediately. Two days later, silk handkerchiefs for both Agnes and Stella, each embroidered with a small cross in gold thread. He became a regular guest at dinner, and the evenings he did not come took on a length and dullness that drove Agnes to put an ear to the clocks to make sure they were still running.

            The lovers did not allow themselves again the intimacy of that night on the marble bench. This did not mean that their feelings for one another were cooling, but rather the opposite. The growing intensity of their relationship convinced both of them that to be alone, in each other’s arms, might provoke a temptation too strong to resist. So they restricted themselves to open places and quick embraces. On Fridays they made a habit of going into town together for lunch and then ambling along the main street to window-shop. Everything on display had become interesting, from boot-blacking supplies to children’s bonnets.

            Of course, the two became Chesterton’s favorite topic of speculation. Most of the local dowagers had decided that Agnes was consigned to spinsterhood at her advanced age of thirty-some and were confused by Lord Phillip’s lack of interest in Chesterton’s brilliant young crop of eligible ladies. Some accused him privately of pursuing her for the Somerset fortune, soon to be hers in the wake of her grandmother’s death. Others worried, not without relish, that he was a confirmed bachelor who was toying with the mistress of Brookside, and that Agnes would add another sorrow to her life story when he scampered off to his next adventure. And some subscribed to the foggy but salacious rumor of his ill conduct while abroad posing as a missionary and shook their heads at a woman of Agnes’s standing taking up with such a character.

            Then there were those few who actually rejoiced to see two people happy together and so natural in every affection. These admirers noticed how Phillip held open the carriage door whenever Agnes climbed in and then tucked her skirt carefully around her feet. They saw how she studied his face while he talked, how he listened gravely to all she said. Those who noticed these things nodded to themselves saying “That is a match for sure,” and their hearts swelled to see the marvel of true love. These were people happy enough in their own lives to want happiness for others. Such people, sadly, have always been in short supply and are barely sufficient to lighten the world’s dark load of envy.

            So August came, and the weekend Agnes had promised to visit Vera in New York City. She hated to leave Phillip, for one day without seeing him felt like a fortnight. Still she had promised, and she was bursting to tell Vera about her bliss. And Vera had pledged to take Agnes to Central Park, where all of New York came together to play and promenade. Agnes usually visited her aunt during the theater season—just last winter they had seen Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, bringing more whispered assurances from Vera that marriage was not for her. So it had been many years since Agnes had seen the grand park in its summer glory.

            Her first morning in the city was a Sunday. It dawned bright and blue, so after church the ladies lost no time in breakfasting and boarding a cab for the park. Vera had a hundred questions for her niece that she had not had the patience to write out in letters.

            Agnes and Vera stepped off the cab and into the bustle of Central Park. They paused to take in the scene. Men in summer suits walked arm-in-arm with their young ladies in pale, ruffled dresses, tilting parasols against the late-morning sun. Mothers and nannies pushed baby carriages while scolding older children to watch where they were going and stop throwing stones. Older men filled the benches, their faces hidden in the day’s paper or smiling at the energy of little boys running by. A large clan of Germans was setting up for a picnic under a spreading oak. Two of their men sat plying red-and-white accordions in their laps, serenading the group with native tunes.

            “What a wonderful place!” declared Agnes. “In winter it’s impossible to picture this. If I were you, I think I would be here every day.”

            “No you would not,” replied her aunt. “Everyone thinks that, but you get busy no matter what, and pastoral walks or tea with friends get pushed to the back until visitors come to town to drag us to the things we should have been doing all along.”

            Agnes looked around her more closely. “There seem to be more people—different kinds of people—than I remember.”

            Vera smiled. “Oh yes, we have gotten more democratic in the use of our park these days. Those Germans over there? Such a large group was not allowed before. The working class has even gotten the park commission to move the summer concerts from Saturday to Sunday since it’s their only day off.”

            “That sounds sensible,” observed Agnes.

            “Yes, I’m sure it is, but still . . . it changes the flavor. I haven’t been to one in years now.”

            As they walked on, Vera put her questions to Agnes, who answered them as fully as possible, not scrimping on peripheral details that she felt might perfect her aunt’s understanding of the situation with Phillip. They stopped at the top of a broad set of steps that led down to a grand fountain, where sheets of water fell into a sparkling round pool.

            “So what do you think?” Agnes asked at last.

            Vera looked keenly at Agnes and folded her hands. “I think this is the happiest summer of your life. You are in the middle of an exquisite memory, my dear, that you will look back on with great fondness, whatever might happen.”

            Agnes paled. “It sounds like you do not see a bright future here.”

            Vera looked at her earnestly. “Have you thought that many of the qualities that make your Lord Phillip so exciting, so novel, so lovable, are precisely those that might make him a poor choice for a husband?”

            “Such as?”

            “He is available to spend lots of time with you because he is not employed. He is unpredictable. His manners are refreshingly unorthodox, which may keep you two from receiving the better invitations, or any at all. He has all kinds of fascinating experiences to talk about because he has specialized in nothing. And, you have no way of knowing the truth of his adventures in India. This, too—the rumors that follow him on this account—may lead respectable people to keep you at arm’s length. Have you considered all this?”

            “A hundred times over.”

            “And you are undaunted?”

            Agnes leaned forward. “If I had to live in a lonely cottage with Phillip and eat turnips at every meal, I see it as far, far better than marrying a dull pillar of society and becoming the first couple on everyone’s list. But remember,” she cautioned, straightening again, “he has made no proposal or given any indication that he means to marry one day. I must admit,” she added, “I thought you would be happier for me.”

            “I’m sorry, Agnes. I’ve spoken as though you did not know the snares of this world. I feel I still have to warn you about the ugly things that lurk inside pretty pink seashells. I am thrilled to see you so happy. I adore Lord Phillip and, if I were only twenty years younger, I would be head over heels for him if he paid me the slightest attention. I know I seem to be turning into an old prune, but it was my duty to point these things out.”

            Agnes smiled and put an arm around her aunt’s small shoulders. “Nonsense! I understand that you are looking out for me. You know I depend on you to be honest with me, Vera. You have done your duty!” Agnes adjusted her hat against the sun. “And now tell me your news. How is our beloved Mr. Schmidt?”

            They descended the stairs and took advantage of the first empty bench they came to. Vera confessed that Mr. Schmidt was as loyal and stainless as ever. He was in Richmond at present, tending to his father who was near death. Frederick was trying to sort out the old man’s tangled finances before he breathed his last. His mother had died years ago and there were no other children, so everything, for good or ill, was falling upon Frederick.

            “But that man never complains,” observed Vera. “He is stoic in all situations. I am up and down like a jack-in-the-box, but he is steady as a barge. I really don’t know what I would do without him anymore. He has become my anchor.” Vera had removed her hat to feel the breeze blowing their way. The midday sun shone brightly on her face as she watched a team of bicyclists circling the fountain. Agnes noticed in the bright light the fine lines around her aunt’s eyes and mouth, and reflected how they did not in any way detract from her beauty.

            “That’s why,” Vera continued, “I have agreed to marry my dear Frederick come Christmas.”

            Agnes gasped and half rose from her seat. “We could have a double wedding!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, realizing the rashness of her comment and how it had betrayed what churned in her heart. But Vera simply admitted that they just might, so the two ladies spent the rest of the day in the most excellent spirits possible, taking a short tour of the zoo and even riding the park’s wildly painted carousel three times. They planned Vera’s winter wedding down to the menu and the bride’s bouquet and indulged in a bottle of champagne over dinner to celebrate the rosiness of their twin horizons.

Chapter 35

Mrs. Thorne waited several weeks for Phillip to return to Beaujour, but in vain. So, true to her promise, she issued invitations for a summer ball to every local luminary not traveling abroad in August or hiding in their Adirondack retreats.

            Word had reached her that Lord Phillip was spending his leisure time at Brookside. She had seen him and Agnes in town, taking tea and walking close. They gave every appearance of a carefree couple in the early throws of romance. Agnes always thought herself so far above, Claudia reflected, even in school. Miss Virtue herself of the lofty Somerset clan, reigning supreme over the legendary Brookside. Now she thinks she’ll get the grand prize after all, the son of British aristocracy. Claudia’s heart beat faster and her breath grew shallow as she thought about it.

            She had not forgotten how that woman had stolen M. from her. The years had not dimmed her rage. He could have been hers, should have been hers, and she could have held him. But Agnes had to get in the middle of everything and pull him away—then she couldn’t even make him stay. But by then Claudia had accepted Sherman’s proposal (more from spite than love), and by the time M. lost interest in the golden girl, Claudia had a ring on her finger. She had, plain and simply, been robbed.

            However, not all the news reaching Claudia these days about Agnes was good. Miss Somerset’s great catch had a shadow over him. Claudia had heard from more than one source that he had been embroiled in a sordid affair with a mere girl, an Indian beauty. He had apparently left India with her and then hidden her away. It was not hard to guess why he would have needed to do that, and a few well-placed inquires had told her just what she had hoped for. Agnes probably knew nothing about the whole thing, or if she did, had dismissed it. The ball would be the perfect setting for pressing home the real story of why her beau left his sacred work among the Hindus.

            It had taken Claudia no time at all to think up a theme for the evening: The Secrets of India. She had ordered yards and yards of brilliant cotton and silk to drape the doorways. She brought in tropical plants of every description and even a life-size papier-mâché elephant with onyx eyes for the ballroom. For herself she had commissioned a lavish sari with a low, tight bodice and a length of deep emerald silk embroidered in gold to wrap around her exquisite body. A saffron veil and exotic makeup would complete the effect.

            Claudia had issued invitations to absolutely everyone in Duchess County who mattered at all. Most had already returned their acceptances. The wealthy, the political, the powerful would be well represented at her little coup de foudre, ensuring that a blanket of gossip would start spreading over the surrounding counties as soon as her guests returned home. She could not help congratulating herself.

            ***

            Agnes had only been back from New York City a few hours when the invitation arrived, hand-delivered by Claudia’s man. Fettles decided not to interrupt his mistress but left it on the foyer table for her to find. Agnes was upstairs with Stella and Marie, unpacking her trunk, putting away the lovely summer dress Vera had insisted on buying her. Stella urged her aunt to tell every detail of the visit, and Agnes obliged, keeping just a few reflections to herself. (She remembered hugging Vera goodbye, looking into the shining eyes of the engaged woman, and shouting inwardly, “Yes! This is what I want.”)

            It was well toward evening when Agnes noticed Claudia’s invitation on the foyer table. She read it with mixed emotion. On the one hand, she dreaded any contact with the invidious Mrs. Thorne. On the other, she was thrilled at the prospect of showing off Lord Phillip and waltzing the night away in his arms. The ball’s theme troubled her—surely the woman was up to something, or maybe she was simply trying to impress Phillip and his father with her zeal for the exotic. Agnes conferred with Phillip at dinner, and he told her that sheer, mad curiosity prevented him from even considering not attending. Agnes rebelled at the idea of his appearing unescorted, so her decision was mostly made.

            Still, Agnes knew she should consult her butler on this matter, a man of such perspicacity and up-to-the-minute knowledge of all the area households that he was indispensable in such dilemmas. Agnes found him the next morning seated at the great table in the library, cataloguing a pile of unusually tall, dark blue books that had just arrived from her New York agent.

            “What have we here? Oh,” she cried, coming closer, “the Audubons! Aren’t they huge? And look at the illustrations.” She had opened one volume to a full-page rendering of a long-legged bird with delicate white feathers, posing aristocratically. “The Snowy Egret,” she read. “Are there still any of those left?”

            “A few,” responded Fettles. “Protected now, I understand.”

            “I wonder how he drew them with such detail. I’m sure they did not stand still for long.”

            Fettles looked at his mistress and blinked. This was always his way of saying “I know something I could say, but it might embarrass you.”

            “Well? Did you want to say something?”

            “Madam, he shot the birds. Then he inserted wires to create a lifelike pose.”

            “These are all pictures of dead birds?”

            “That is my understanding.”

            Agnes closed the magnificent book. “Somehow they lose something, don’t you think?”

            “I can’t imagine any other way Mr. Audubon could have drawn his pictures. And taking one to preserve its likeness for generations to come is surely nothing compared to all those sacrificed for hat feathers.”

            “Well, still . . . Fettles, I need your advice.”

            The butler replaced his pen in its well and folded his hands on the gleaming table. Agnes explained the difficulty in her attending Claudia’s ball, an event about which Fettles already knew a measure more than she did. He advised her unequivocally that she had made the right decision—she simply had to attend or speculation would run wild about the reason for her absence, and this was an opportunity to make a public statement about her connection to Lord Phillip.

            “I say this,” cautioned Fettles, “knowing how cunning Mrs. Thorne is. You must be on your guard in all you say. Remember that her servants are often put up to spying for her and will recount to their mistress anything they hear. She’s a bully and a serpent all in one, Agnes”—in his concern he slipped into using her given name. “The only way I’ve found to handle a bully is to adopt a guarded position of attack yourself. Retreat never works. As for the serpent, well, that is harder to defend against.”

            Agnes sat against the table and gathered her skirt fabric into her hands. “I’m sure you are right. I do feel like I am walking into a trap.”

            “Possibly. But you are up to it, I dare say. And you will have Lord Phillip as reinforcement and shield.”

            Agnes smiled vaguely and thanked her butler. She went away with a troubled spirit to tackle the easier challenge of a ball gown for the beautifully expanding Stella.

To be continued . . .

Episode 17: Wilbur Tells His Tale and Eleanor Offers a Warning

Chapter 32

“So where shall we begin,” asked Wilbur brightly, indicating a chair. Mr. Rockwell sat, opened his bag, and removed his notebook.

            “As you know,” began the accountant, “It is my responsibility to conduct the final disposition of your grandmother’s estate according to her will. As Agnes is a single woman without substantial income, Mrs. Brown intended, as you were aware, to leave the lion’s share of her liquid assets to her. A will to this effect has been in place for many years. Agnes was, as a result, looking forward to an absence of worry regarding the upkeep of Brookside.”

            “The balance of your grandmother’s accounts as of February 28 was nearly $8 million. No transactions came across my desk since that time. However, when I checked the balances in preparation for making the proper distributions, I found that they totaled only  $748,000. Since you and Eleanor were her daily companions, and I can only assume were privy to some discussions of her finances, I am looking to you for help in explaining this.”

            Wilbur had seated himself behind his desk while listening. Now, downing the last of his glass, he rose and began a thoughtful pacing.

            “Abram, as a man of business and considerable assets yourself, I know that you know the importance—no, the necessity—of continuing to make one’s money work for one’s family. A dormant fortune is a shrinking fortune.”

            “I am well aware of this principle. And you have always been free to invest your wealth where you saw fit, I am sure.”

            Wilbur cleared his throat and tugged at his vest. “You may not know that my assets have been committed for some time now to improvements at my estate, Montefiore, and a small number of long-term investments abroad.”

            Mr. Rockwell interrupted, his color rising. “You have made use then of your grandmother’s funds without consulting me? Is that what you are saying?”

            “Some opportunities require immediate action,” Wilbur returned sharply. “I have taken advantage of chances that could not wait.”

            “Such as?” Mr. Rockwell was clearly struggling to control himself.

            “Principally real estate.”

            “All since February?”

            Wilbur was silent for a moment, then poured himself another dose of dark orange whiskey.

            “And by what means? With the exception of your grandmother, I am the only one authorized to access these accounts.”

            “Grandma Brown saw the wisdom of the purchases and was amenable to offering me power of attorney to make use of additional resources.”

            “What?” Mr. Rockwell exploded from his chair. “Without asking me? Without even notifying me?”

            Just then both men noticed Jenkins standing in the doorway with a bundle and a tall mug.

            “Well?” Wilbur snapped at the wide-eyed boy.

            The youth mumbled that he had the gentleman’s chicken pie and his coffee and could he keep the change as he had run all the way back with it. Mr. Rockwell, like a man in a daze, said he could keep the change and the food for that matter. At this the boy, after a moment’s confusion, darted back out the front door to eat his dinner safely removed from the strange gentleman who might, he feared, at any moment change his mind.

            Wilbur proceeded to assure Mr. Rockwell that he had the situation under firm control. When asked for receipts and ledger books, he raised his arms helplessly and said that his associate had been called away to Washington that very morning on an errand of the greatest importance that had required him to take those items with him. He should be back next week, though, and they could sort it all out then.

            “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you have nothing to show me at this time?”

            “Sadly that is true. I do regret the great inconvenience, Abram. But you are more than welcome to spend the night.”

            As the weight of Wilbur’s words registered with him, Mr. Rockwell dropped into his chair like one whose legs had been knocked from under him. His mind whirled. At length he demanded, “I should like to see this power of attorney you mention.”

            “Of course.” Wilbur pulled out a desk drawer and produced the document, duly signed and witnessed and dated March of the same year.

            “Why wasn’t I advised? It is not like your grandmother to not communicate with me on such a matter.”

            “She had confidence in our plan and was afraid you would not approve. After all, Grandma was entitled to make her own decisions, was she not? She was a sharp old woman to the last.” Wilbur tried to smile, but the effect was ghoulish.

            Mr. Rockwell tucked the document into his bag. “I’ll take this. I’m sure you have another copy.” He rose and stood squarely in front of Wilbur. “You have much to answer for, Wilbur. There could be a challenge. You might have to liquidate these recent investments to give the family its due, and soon. I hope you invested very wisely.” He picked up his bag. “As for spending the night, no. If your boy will get me a cab, I will return to the station directly. As soon as your associate is returned, so shall I, and we will have a full accounting of all this. Make sure your papers are in order. I will not come alone.”

            Mr. Rockwell headed to the door, grabbed his hat and umbrella on the way, and walked out. Wilbur, just behind him, whistled for Jenkins, who set out to find a cab while chewing the last mouthful of pie. Wilbur said an awkward good-bye and closed the black door behind his visitor. A carriage, which had been parked half a block away, pulled out and came to a stop a few yards from where Mr. Rockwell stood. A head projected from the window, and a hand beckoned, and Mr. Rockwell recognized the imposing countenance of Mrs. Eleanor Brown.

Chapter 33

Eleanor’s carriage, with Mr. Rockwell inside, pulled away at a brisk clip just as Jenkins, already planning how to spend his next tip, appeared with a cab for the gentleman. Mr. Rockwell looked through the rear window to see the young man crane his neck one way and the other, then run into Brown and Associates in search of his fare.

            Meanwhile, the puzzled passenger turned his attention to Eleanor and waited for her to speak. The shock he had just been dealt had robbed him of his usual manners.

            “I know you have just met with my husband,” Eleanor began. She clearly saw no need for polite preamble. A Persian cat dozed in her lap as she absently stroked its luxurious head. “What did he tell you?”

            “He told me things my ears could barely take in, madam. That he had secured power of attorney over his grandmother for the purpose of using her money to make certain real estate investments, none of which I was consulted about. When I asked for receipts he told me that they were all with his associate who happens to be in Washington this week, and if I would be so kind as to return next week, he will provide a full account of this shocking situation.” Mr. Rockwell’s voice swelled as he finished, and Eleanor shrank inwardly at the fury she and her husband would now face. “Can you tell me anything further?” the old man asked, raising his eyebrows.

            “I can tell you that I had nothing to do with all this. I warned him many times, and I urged him to talk to you and to Agnes, but he refused, kept putting it off.”

            “Why didn’t Mrs. Brown contact me?”

            Eleanor looked away. “She did. That is, she wrote letters and Wilbur always took them to town to send. I suspected you might never receive them.” She paused and glanced at her visitor with a dark mixture of fear and hesitation. “I have reason to believe that he led her to think you replied . . . approvingly, and even concealed the actual amounts.”

“Infamy! And what do you know about these investments?”

            “What investments?”

            “The $7 million of investments your husband says are in real estate opportunities.”

            Eleanor stroked the sleepy cat. “I’ll only say this. Do not expect to return next week for a full accounting. If I were you, I would take whatever money remains and safeguard it. That may be all Agnes will ever see.”

            Mr. Rockwell’s face blanched and his hands went cold. “What are you telling me, Mrs. Brown?”

            “I had nothing to do with it. It can’t be helped now. I’m sorry.” She raised her chin and the muscles in her neck tensed.

            The carriage door swung open. Mr. Rockwell had not even noticed that they had stopped. Mechanically he looked out and saw that they were at the station. Understanding that their conversation was over, he descended to the street, shuffled into the great train station, and found Western Union. He sent a telegraph to his office to freeze what remained of Grandma’s assets and request the current balances. “Urgent. Will explain upon immediate return.”

            The air in the station hung gray and stifling as outside a steady drizzle resumed. The old accountant realized that his clothes were sticking to his body and that he had not eaten for many hours. He bought a sausage and coffee, downed both without tasting them, and boarded the next train to New York.

            How could he have let this happen? He had let down the family, he had let down Benjamin. He should have been more vigilant. He would press a lawsuit. If necessary, Wilbur could sell his mansion to recover the money due Agnes. There would be a solution, it would just take time. But what did Eleanor mean about there being no accounting? Was there no property purchased? If not, how had Wilbur spent $7 million in only a few months?

            These and a hundred other questions swirled in the old man’s head. But emerging above them all was a fear that gripped him more with each mile that separated him from Philadelphia: What if Wilbur disappeared? Would he dare? Mr. Rockwell had heard enough that afternoon to know that the man was capable of anything to save his skin and not face whatever it was he had done. He felt it in his bones.

            And what in the world was he going to tell Agnes?

To be continued . . .