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 . . .