Episode 24: The Ladies Visit Fellcrest and Leave Very Much Changed From When They Arrived

Chapter 46

Agnes did not protest, but allowed her aunt to lead her back toward the house. She turned over in her mind what it would be like to see Phillip again and felt a swarm of conflicting emotions fill her whole body. But as they neared the house, she was distracted from her reflections by a cab parked in the porte cochère. Coming closer, they heard Fettles’ voice rising in pitch. As they rounded the cab they found the butler standing in the drive, facing a cabdriver. The driver was a crude-looking lump of a man, who stood in an immovable stance with his chin thrust out. More important, the driver held in one dirty hand the leashes that led to the thin necks of two dogs in matching black jackets—two greyhounds, in fact, one with a jeweled collar.

            Vera and Agnes looked at each other. Surely not, their eyes said. “Fettles, what is going on?” demanded Agnes, stepping forward.

            “Madam, it’s incredible. Incredible! The dogs—this man insists that they were sent here and he’s delivering them from the train. And he is asking for payment. I told him that this is impossible, but he will not budge.”

            “But it’s Empress and Napoleon!” cried Vera. At this the dogs raised their heads and looked expectantly at her.

            Agnes addressed the taciturn driver. “Where did these animals come from?”

            The man unfolded a limp piece of paper. “Says here Philadelphia. Going here. This is Brookside estate, ain’t it?”

            “It is.”

            “Well then my job is done. And that’ll be a dollar for bringing ‘em up from the station—nobody’s paid for that. I should charge more for animals, but they was well behaved, so I’ll leave it at a dollar.”

            The three recipients looked at one another, at the dogs, at the driver. Finally Agnes said, “Fettles, please pay the man. This is not his problem.”

            “But, madam, we can’t accept these animals! Why did we sell three excellent horses if we are going to start taking in homeless dogs? Dogs which are being forced upon us?”

            “We’ll find another home for them. For now, just pay him the fare,” Agnes said testily. “We can’t stand here the rest of the day.”

            Fettles produced the money, and the driver handed the leashes to Agnes. As he climbed onto his cab he paused. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled another rumpled note from his pocket and handed it to her. “This came with ‘em.” Then he fell into his seat, slapped the reins, and rode away, leaving behind his distinctive scent. Fettles and Vera drew close to Agnes and looked intently at the paper as she unfolded it. In a tight, masculine hand was written simply,

            To Brookside Estate, Duchess  County, New York

            Agnes,

            If you get this message it means that Montefiore is in other hands now, and my butler was unable to keep the animals himself. I cannot take them with me, although they are probably the only living things I care much about. Please take care of them one way or another. I would not add this to your burdens but, cousin, you are after all one of the only decent people I know.

                                                                        Wilbur

            How interesting, Agnes reflected, that a cretin like Wilbur actually did esteem her. Somewhere in him he knew right from wrong, good from bad. He recognized in her a decent person, but this did not stop him from squandering her entire inheritance and leaving her without a roof over her head. How did he become what he was, a man with no heart for even his own family, who stopped at nothing to save his miserable skin, whose sense of duty warmed only toward these dimwitted dogs?

            Agnes handed the animals over to Fettles with instructions to have Isaiah give them something to eat and take them for a walk. They had, after all, probably been cooped up in crates for some time. They would take up residence in the kennel until a home could be found. Fettles led them away, muttering uncontrollably.

            Agnes went inside and checked her hair, exchanged her shawls for a heavy silk jacket, and pulled on a pair of gloves. Marie pinned a sober black hat on her, and the ladies were ready. Ned had hitched up the horses to the open buggy as Vera had requested, feeling that the cool air would do Agnes good. As they rolled up the road to Fellcrest, Agnes thought of asking her aunt why exactly they were making this trip. The thought of seeing Phillip frightened her, but at the same time she thrilled at the idea. She said nothing and watched the countryside instead: the patches of wild woods, the farmers’ fields tall with sturdy corn ready for harvest, here and there a fallow field waiting its turn to grow another crop. She recalled Phillip talking about buying land and trying his hand at agriculture. She had no trouble picturing him plowing fields like those they were passing, reveling in the scent of freshly turned earth and dancing at the sight of emerging barley shoots.

            Fellcrest was set unusually close to the road. Just a few yards up the driveway a pair of tall iron gates obliged visitors to stop, open, and reclose them. Ned, a man not usually given to grumbling, found this procedure irritating and unnecessary and let his feelings be known. Agnes knew that the gates were put up by the previous owners, but did wonder why the Duke kept them in place despite repeated promises to remove them for being singularly “undemocratic.”

            A buggy was parked in front of the house, and some sort of activity that sounded not altogether agreeable was going on around it. Agnes and Vera leaned forward as they approached. “It seems to be our day,” Vera murmured to Agnes, “for witnessing dramatic arrivals or departures!”

They watched as Lord Phillip held the buggy’s door open for a young woman who climbed in roughly and sat herself down in a defensive posture, clutching a small bag in her lap. Mrs. Morgan, her face a collection of anxious lines, stood to one side with the baby on her narrow hip.

            “. . . have already been paid more than you deserve,” was the first fragment the ladies could distinguish, uttered by Lord Phillip as he slammed the buggy door shut.

            “Your little bastard doesn’t deserve a decent nurse like me,” sputtered the woman. “You took advantage of a girl in need of a position. I quit, you understand, I quit!”

            Phillip noticed the visitors. “Take her back,” he shouted to his driver. “Take her back where she came from.”

            As the indignant girl was driven away, Mrs. Morgan turned to Phillip. “She won’t be easy to replace, you know. Nurses are hard to find.”

            “I don’t care,” Phillip cried, leaning toward the startled housekeeper. “I won’t have this child mistreated. I’ll feed him goat’s milk first. I am surprised that you could let this go on, Mrs. Morgan.”

            “This child has no business being here—either in this house or in this world,” snapped the housekeeper.

            Phillip, clearly stunned, stood staring at her for a moment. Then he reached out and took the child from her. “We may not know this child’s earthly parents, Mrs. Morgan, but we know one thing. God made him, and with some purpose. Now that I understand your feelings, I relieve you of any responsibility toward him.”

            Mrs. Morgan clenched and unclenched her hands, but having no defense, she pressed her thin lips together and walked briskly into the house.

            A warm rush of admiration washed over Agnes as she was reminded of why she loved this man.

Chapter 47

With his one free hand, Phillip helped the ladies down. He smiled politely at Agnes, then turned to Vera. Vera took the lead, and avoiding any reference to the unpleasant scene they had just observed, chattered about how long it had been since she had visited Fellcrest and what a handsome home it was. Phillip glanced periodically at Agnes, but she was not ready to speak. She stood with her hands clasped—tightly, she suddenly realized—observing the natural way Phillip held the child. He took on a different light with this baby in his arms. It was as though another Phillip had joined the one she knew, making him doubly attractive. This is what being a father looks like, she mused. And does a man, when he sees his wife with their new baby, observe the same thing? Does she shine in a wholly new way? Agnes glimpsed for the first time how a couple magically expands, in a way she never imagined, when they become parents.

            She stepped closer to Phillip and extended her arms toward Henri. She saw the surprise on Phillip’s face, but he handed him to her. Agnes marveled at the baby’s flawless skin, so dark and creamy. She took his smooth little arm in her hand and let him grip her fingers. His shiny hair was already waving about his neck and forehead. He looked up at Agnes and stretched out a hand to pull at the netting of her hat. Phillip stepped in to loosen his grip, while Vera unpinned her niece’s hat to remove it from danger. Agnes thought she saw Phillip in the child’s brow and nose but, after all, this was a baby’s face and subject to change.

            “I have been negligent,” Phillip was saying. “I have not come by to check on you in some time.” He observed her thin face and the dark patches below her eyes. “You look very well, though.”

            “You are being kind,” Agnes replied, combing the baby’s hair with her fingers. “I am quite well, but I have looked better. These last few weeks have been rather difficult.”

            Vera and Agnes accepted Phillip’s invitation to lunch. Phillip handed Henri to a young servant with instructions that he was not to be given into Mrs. Morgan’s care under any circumstances. The girl beamed with the baby in her arms and hurried off toward the kitchen.

            Phillip showed the ladies into the front parlor, a room whose tasteful decoration could not disguise the fact that a woman did not manage the home. The gold wallpaper was growing dingy, the furniture had been arranged in a practical but unappealing way, and the room had a lifeless quality unrelieved by even a vase of flowers or pictures of family.

            The Duke was in Albany for the week, and Phillip was managing the newly complicated household without him. It took little urging to get from him the story of the dismissed wet nurse. Phillip had noticed the small bruises on Henri’s tender legs just that morning, and Mrs. Morgan had informed him when questioned that she had seen the nurse “encouraging” the child to feed more steadily with “gentle” pinching. A quick survey of the other servants revealed that the nurse had several times left the child unattended while she went down to stuff herself in the kitchen and was seldom known to change his diapers.

            “What will you do now?” asked Agnes.

            “I’ve been asking myself that all morning,” replied Phillip, moving a crepe to his plate. He had taken advantage of his father’s absence to request French crepes of their cook. They were among her specialties, but the Duke forbid them on the grounds of their Frankish origins. Phillip also took the liberty of having their meal served in the parlor because, as he explained it, the dining room wallpaper—a dark, peacock-laden pattern selected a few years earlier by Mrs. Morgan—robbed him of his appetite.

            “It crossed my mind that your visit is no coincidence, and I dared hope that you both might help me think of something. Of course, there is the orphanage at Newbury but I know nothing about it.”

            “Could you do that?” Agnes wondered aloud.

            “Well, I assume they must take in any child who has no parents.”

            Vera stirred her lemonade. “Of course, since the child is not yours, you have no actual responsibility toward him. But we might wonder if the orphanage is the right place for him.”

            Phillip put down his food and waved his arms. “I have no other resource! I trust no one here to look after him properly. I wish there were someone I could give him to, but whom? He is of unknown but obviously mixed parentage. Not much of a pedigree there, poor little devil.”

            “Speaking of pedigree,” put in Vera, changing direction, “we have our own unexpected charges just arrived at Brookside.” She told about the delivery of Empress and Napoleon that morning, which led to (with a nod from Agnes) a summary of where they stood with the disposition of Brookside, its contents, and its staff. As Vera talked, Phillip reached for Agnes’s hand. Feeling the pressure of his consoling grip, tears formed in her eyes. How often it happens that strong people can trudge through terrible trials dry-eyed, but let someone squeeze their hand or enclose them in a simple embrace, and the sorrow spills out. Phillip wrapped an arm around Agnes’s shoulder as she wept quietly.

            “It seems,” he observed as Vera concluded, “that we are both of us mired in crisis.”

            “But yours,” Agnes managed, struggling to recover herself, “is more immediate than ours. The child needs to be fed today.”

            “I see only one solution, although it is a temporary one,” Vera said boldly. “You say there is no one you trust him with in your household. Well, would you trust us? Just until you can make proper arrangements for him, of course.”

            Agnes looked at Vera with a mixture of joy and terror. Phillip looked from one to the other.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Well, I’ve given this no thought. It simply struck me that little Henri needs someone and we are here. It might not work at all. Neither Agnes nor I have any first-hand experience with babies, and neither does Stella. However, I am sure we can count on someone at our house who will know just what to do, and that is the indomitable Mrs. Williams.” Vera looked triumphantly at Agnes.

            Brookside’s head housekeeper possessed knowledge that stretched beyond the boundary of keeping a mansion clean and beautiful. She had lost her husband in the war after only two years of marriage and no children. Her grief drove her to action, and she poured herself into ministering to mothers struggling through those years without their husbands. After a brief course in home nursing, she busied herself making the rounds of households run by overwhelmed women, dispensing instruction on efficient household management and proper hygiene and rocking fussy babies while their exhausted mothers slept. After the war ended, she accepted the position at Brookside, but continued her home visits to struggling families every Saturday by Mrs. Somerset’s leave. Only recently had she given up this mission as her aging back made it too difficult to ride around the countryside in all weather, climbing in and out of carriages and picking up sturdy children.

            “This would be magnificent,” beamed Phillip. “I did not dare ask such a thing of you. It will put you in a delicate situation to take this child in. You know how people are.”

            “At this point,” smiled Agnes, rising, “we haven’t much to lose, have we? Let’s take the little thing with us and see what we can do.”

            And so Agnes and Vera left Fellcrest with baby Henri, a pile of cottons that the staff had cut for diapers, and the few gowns they had so far been able to sew for him. The cook provided a hard biscuit dipped in molasses for the baby to suck on and, bundled in a light blanket, he took his place on Agnes’s lap for the ride to Brookside.

            “God bless you both,” said Phillip. “I will come to see you tomorrow.”  The ladies left with full hearts and a rush of purpose, so different from their faltering spirits of only that morning. As for Phillip, it did not strike him until he was waving goodbye that he had already broken his promise to himself to stay clear of Agnes and not burden her a moment longer with himself or his trouble.

            It was nearly three o’clock when the ladies got home with their new acquisition, found Mrs. Williams, and told her what had happened. “I’m going into town!” cried the housekeeper. “Get the carriage ready, and don’t lose any time,” she barked to Fettles. While bustling to fetch her hat, gloves, and purse, she explained that she meant to find in the Chesterton shops some of the new infant formula they had started making. “Not as good as mother’s milk, of course, but he’s not ready for cow’s milk. I believe we still have a baby bed?”

            “Oh, yes, mine is in the attic,” said Agnes, letting the baby chew on her finger. The biscuit had not lasted long. “We can set up the nursery again, but we’ll need bed sheets.”

            Mrs. Williams promised to get everything necessary. She left them with instructions to take an old handkerchief, fill a narrow bit of it with chopped apple, tie it off, and let the child chew on that. “And for heaven’s sake,” she ordered over her shoulder, “change that diaper and oil his bottom!”

To be continued . . .

Episode 23: Phillip Keeps Watch and Comes to a Decision

Chapter 44

A baby is a demanding house guest. Phillip’s life so far had not brought him in touch with young children except for the urchins who had drifted into his mission to listen to stories and get a lump of sugar. So the degree to which his entire household was turned inside out at the arrival of the six-month-old infant made him stand back in awe.

            The child proved to be a fussy one, and Mrs. Morgan announced that he was undernourished and in poor health. The first priority was to secure a wet nurse for the child, which position was filled quickly by a robust young woman whose infant had died just a week earlier. On seeing her new charge, however, the lady hesitated, frightened that “the little heathen” might have a dread disease that he would make it his business to pass on to her. Doctor Bingham was brought in to inspect the child and, aside from being underweight, pronounced him as fit as any baby in the county.

            On this visit, the doctor took Phillip aside and asked if he had been to Brookside in the last day or two. Hearing that he had not, the doctor advised him of Agnes’s poor health, having just come from her bedside. Doctor Bingham acknowledged that he was aware of a certain fondness between them, and it might be wise for Phillip to find time to visit the patient to the extent the ladies of that household might allow.

            Phillip’s face blanched at the news. “Are you going back that way?” he asked, grabbing the doctor’s sleeve. “May I ride with you?”

            Phillip knew of the doctor’s reputation as a man of sagacity and unimpeachable discretion. So during their ride to Brookside, Phillip confided the events at the ball, most of which the doctor had already heard from every one of his patients in the last week, with fantastic variations.

            “So you see,” Phillip concluded, “this has all been a great shock to her, surely. What is she to make of it? I would have gone to see her but I did not know what to say.”

            “My friend,” replied the doctor, training a keen eye on the young man, “take the advice of a man who has made many mistakes himself with the fair sex. In a case like this, saying almost anything to her is better than saying nothing. It’s the terrible silence that can crush them, as they imagine the very worst, with nothing to contradict their wild ravings. Don’t leave her alone with this, whatever you do. She may reject you. That is her right. But then again, she might not.”

            By now they had arrived at Brookside. Phillip thanked the doctor quickly and jumped out to untie his horse from behind the carriage.

            “One more thing,” called the doctor after him. “Demand nothing. Don’t ask her to believe you. Give her time.”

            Phillip knocked at the great black door and waited what felt like days for it to open. When it did, Fettles stood blocking the entrance.

            “She’s not well,” he announced.

            “I’ve heard. Doctor Bingham dropped me by. May I see her?”

            Fettles paused. He was furious with this man and the rest of the pack who had brought his favorite girl in the entire world to her knees. “Why have you come?” he sputtered, fighting to keep his voice low. “Why should I let you disturb her further?” His eyes bulged and the veins in his lean neck stood out with the effort to control the anger pushing hard within him.

            “Because, Fettles, by the grace of God, she may still tolerate me. And I love her.” He looked directly into Fettles’ eyes, unafraid of his rage. “I love her,” Phillip pleaded, “almost as much as you do.”

            Fettles’ mouth twitched, and water filled his eyes. Stepping slowly aside, he admitted the young man, softly closed the door, and led the way upstairs. They found Vera at the bedside, applying a freshly soaked cloth to Agnes’s forehead. Vera looked at them without speaking and turned back to her patient.

            “Lord Phillip wishes to see Miss Agnes. I told him it would be up to you.”

            Vera looked down at her niece, whose eyes moved fitfully beneath the closed lids. “I can’t see that it matters. She’ll be as unaware of you as she is of the rest of us.”

            Phillip stepped forward, “Just let me sit next to her and hold her hand. She’ll know I’m here. I won’t make her speak.”

            Vera and Fettles exchanged uncertain looks. “Very well,” Vera decided. “Sit here. I’ll be right outside, and I shall leave the door open. If you trouble her in the slightest way I will throw you out in an instant.”

            Phillip sat lightly on the edge of the bed and caught up Agnes’s hot hand in his. He took the cloth off her head, rinsed it in the basin of cold water at his elbow, and dabbed at her neck and wrists. Vera peeked in at him as he half sat, half knelt beside the unconscious woman. The scene brought back suddenly her days in the field hospital, where the occasional sweetheart would find her man and hold him for the few days it took for his life to run out.

            “When did you eat last?” she called to Phillip.

            Without taking his eyes off Agnes, Phillip replied that it was sometime the day before. Vera slipped away to find a plate of food.

            Phillip spent most the following days sitting quietly in a corner of Agnes’s room as her fever rose, dipped, hovered, and rose again. Now and then Agnes would wake for a few minutes, and her attendants would ply her with sips of water and broth. Then she would close her eyes and fall back into a restless, mumbling sleep. Occasionally Phillip took a short break to walk through the gardens and gather an odd arrangement of flowers and honeysuckle vine for her room, always hoping to see some improvement when he returned. Each night he left for his father’s home, only to return early the next morning. The Duke stopped by several times to inquire after the patient and stay to tea, afterwards forcing the ladies into a game of cards that provided them all a brief relief from the circumstances of their lives.

            By virtue of Phillip’s constancy, on the fourth day of Agnes’s sickness Vera and Stella shared with him the dark news the Rockwells had brought them. Upon hearing it, he brought the flat of his hand down violently on the parlor table.

            “I knew there was something!” he exclaimed. “I knew that man was about the devil’s work—but I could not tell what, of course. Damnation!”

            “Uncle Wilbur has always been bad,” explained Stella. “I personally have always detested him.”

            “But none of us could have anticipated this,” put in Vera, “not even Mr. Rockwell, who is the closest to the family’s financial affairs. No one could have guessed . . .”  Vera’s voice trailed off as though she had run out of words. Her face wore the blank look of extreme fatigue.

            While Phillip seethed at Wilbur’s villainy, he somehow took upon himself a measure of blame, feeling like a carrier of disaster since entering Agnes’s life. It seemed he harbored within him the seeds of plague, which he had unwittingly spilled upon her and her entire home. He left the ladies and went out, riding through the countryside all afternoon, dismounting now and then to tramp through fields and scream at the sky. Everything he touched turned to ruin. As soon as she was well he would leave her alone for good, he resolved. He must let her rebuild her life in whatever way God in his mercy might grant her. But would she recover, he wondered, reflecting on the pale, damp face on the pillow, the sweet mouth that muttered nonsense and refused anything that might strengthen her.

            Heavy with a grim resolve, Phillip returned to Brookside the next day and the next. On the seventh day, he had fallen asleep on the rug at the foot of Agnes’s bed. Stella had left the room for a moment to get a finer brush for the miniature she was painting. A deep stillness lay upon the house, and only the repeated chirp of a cardinal looking for his mate broke the silence of the afternoon. Suddenly a faint voice startled Phillip from his light sleep. It came again: “That silly lace . . . still hanging there.” He leapt to his feet and found Agnes awake and clear-eyed. He leaned over her and put a hand on her head. It was cool to his touch. The young man uttered a cry and collapsed, taking her into his arms in a grip that threatened to crush her. Presently he unwrapped her and held her at arms’ length, staring. Agnes looked back at him and tried to smile but managed only to twist her lips weakly and lean against him. Stella returned, screamed with delight, and ran to tell the household.

            Agnes spent two weeks recovering her strength. Phillip stopped by every few days to discreetly ask Fettles for a report on her progress, but refused to go inside the house. During her convalescence, Agnes spent long, desultory hours in the garden doing nothing more than watching Stella sketch or listening to the birds chatter. The great troubles that had crushed her now seemed to belong to another world, one she could look at but not feel. Without the strength yet to step into that world, she knew reality would simply have to wait for her.

It has been said that never is one more comfortable or content than in the sweet, powerless days following an illness. The patient has the world’s permission to do nothing and can sit idly with the happy thought that health is on its way back and all she has to do is wait. Afternoon naps, people plumping your pillows and bringing you frivolous books to read (not the serious ones they suggest the rest of the time), hot soup and your favorite puddings, all these special attentions put a glow upon such days that one remembers fondly long after resuming the regular pace of life. 

            The other ladies of the household, by contrast, had busied themselves these three weeks with a great task. While Agnes lay tossing upon her sickbed, Mrs. Rockwell and Vera had begun a comprehensive inventory of Brookside. When Agnes was strong enough, they sat with her and added notes on what she wanted to keep for herself and what she would consider giving to family and friends. The rest, painful as it was to consider, could be auctioned off if Brookside were sold.

            Messrs. Schmidt and Rockwell had stayed three days to walk the grounds with Ned and write down all the particulars regarding the stable and kennel as well as topographical features that could be included to good advantage in a description of the property.

            After four weeks Mrs. Rockwell returned home, leaving Agnes and Vera to resolve the last and most distressing matter, reducing the number of staff. Agnes, being of an efficient and frugal nature, had kept the Brookside staff fairly small, although large enough to keep any one person from being overburdened in his duties. Most had been with the family for years, and some for decades. Now, behind closed doors, the two women pondered a list of names, weighing each one’s ability to secure new employment and the possibility of getting along without them.

            In the years that Agnes had managed the estate, she had only had to fire two people. One was a scullery maid who failed to curb her profane language; the other was a butler’s assistant who napped more than he worked and was suspected of being behind the attrition of teaspoons from the silver chest. But now she was faced with letting perfectly good workers go, putting them out of a position with nothing more than a few dollars, an apology, and a letter of reference.

            And so the two women made the difficult decisions, with many tearful retreats into reminiscences and wishing things were different. Seven servants had lines through their names. To manage with such a reduced staff, all rooms not used daily would be closed off and not cleaned. Entertaining beyond a half-dozen dinner guests was at an end. The stables would be winnowed to three horses from six; and only those gardens closest to the house would be maintained. Philanthropic donations ceased (this despite Agnes’s misgivings, remembering always the story of the widow who gave away her only coin).

            So absorbed were the women in stripping down Brookside and laying bare all of its workings that they were able to put aside the question of Phillip and the baby. However, the day dawned when Agnes could no longer avoid the unsettled affairs of her heart and must, as Vera reminded her, sift through that “pile of dry cuttings.”

Chapter 45

The morning brought a chill with it and the distinct feeling that autumn was close by. The sky stretched above Brookside like a canvas sloppily painted, with patches of dull white showing through the steely gray. Pallid daylight hung at the windows, too weak to enter the dining room where Vera and Agnes sat at breakfast wrapped in thin shawls. The last few weeks had taken a toll on both of them, and Stella was talking about getting back to her home and husband.

            “So how are you doing?” asked Vera, absently spreading a spare coat of blueberry jam onto her toast.

            “In what way?” replied her niece without looking up from the slice of ham she had begun cutting into unnecessarily small bites.

            “It was a general question. But to begin, what are you thinking these days about his lordship?”

            “I’ve been rather too busy to give him much thought,” Agnes half-lied. “I’m sure that once I do I won’t know what to think any more than I did the morning after the debacle. He’s not stopping by any more, is he?”

            “No,” replied Vera. “I understand that after you woke up finally he came every couple of days for about two weeks and then stopped. He probably realized you were stable and otherwise occupied. ”

            “Do you think everyone knows about our situation by now—I mean, about the house and all?”

            “If the servants talked—especially those we let go—then yes. But I haven’t heard any gossip in town yet. As soon as the house goes up for sale, though, speculation will run wild.”

            Agnes poured herself some coffee. “I had Mr. Rockwell promise that he would not list the house until I said so.”

            “The reason for that?”

            Agnes waved her fork. “I’m expecting a miracle, I suppose. No, I’m not. I just need time to get used to the idea.”

            “When you first came back to us you talked as if selling Brookside would be a relief. Do you remember?”

            In Agnes’s first exhausted days after awakening from her fever, she had in her ruminations begun to feel that the collected disasters might be pushing open a door for her. She felt the weight like that of the great mansion itself being lifted from her tired frame. Propped against a bank of pillows one morning she had admitted to Vera that maybe the time had come to surrender the reins.

            “Yes, I remember,” Agnes admitted. “But it was a passing feeling. Much of it is true, of course—letting go of this whole responsibility is very appealing. But it means losing my home, Vera, our family home. You don’t get that back. It is a huge decision.”

            Vera looked with compassion at her niece. “I know, my dear. I know. But you understand that you probably won’t be making that decision, don’t you—rather, the circumstances will.”

            Agnes continued eating and said nothing. She still had not gained back the weight she had lost in her illness, and her color had never completely returned.

            “How about a walk in the garden?” Vera proposed a little too brightly.

            “It’s cold.”

            “It will be good for us. It will put some color in our cheeks.” Grudgingly, Agnes agreed. They each fetched another shawl, and the two walked down the familiar garden paths. Already the weeds were beginning to clutter the beds, and Agnes had never seen the shrubs so untidy. It reminded her how keenly two gardeners are quickly missed. Agnes bent to unwind a thin vine from the creamy bells of a late-blooming foxglove.

            “They don’t know what’s coming,” she mused. “The foxgloves and the roses and the lilies. Choke-weed and violets will overrun them in no time. Do you know what gardening is, Vera? It is man’s attempt to keep Nature from doing what she is determined to do. How could we hope to win in the long run?”

            Vera gave Agnes a long, frank look. “I think it’s time to talk about him—about the two of you.”

            They resumed their walk. Agnes watched her feet as she put one in front of the other. They looked so far away, as though they did not belong to her. What was there to talk about? They had no new facts. Maybe the child was Phillip’s son, maybe he wasn’t. Either way Phillip was now a social outcast—everyone would believe the story Dhanesh told. How could they marry? Besides, his absence could only mean that he had lost interest in her. Maybe she was not as attractive without the Somerset fortune after all.

            “Do you think it’s his child?” asked Vera pointedly.

            “I don’t know. I want to say no, and deep down I don’t believe it is, especially since he was so adamant about it. But I have been fooled before, as you know. And there is a certain resemblance. Of course everyone else must think it is.”

            “True,” Vera reflected, “If you did decide to join him you would be out of any social circle for a very long time. Until he did something profitable, that is, and got readmitted.”

            Agnes smiled. “That’s unlikely, as you observed yourself. He is not gifted with a profession or any money-making talents. And with my new situation, I cannot make him a kept man. Maybe that’s why we don’t see him anymore.”

            Vera stopped. “Agnes, did you have any understanding with Lord Phillip?”

            There was no point in keeping the secret. Exhaustion spread over her suddenly, along with the now familiar feeling that nothing much mattered. “We had agreed to marry. But we told no one because we knew that everyone would be shocked at an engagement after so short a time. It doesn’t matter now.”

            Vera’s heart melted as she looked at her niece, so diminished from the girl she knew. “Do you still love him?” she asked.

            “Of course.”

            Vera thought for a moment. Then, turning Agnes around and pulling her gently along, she announced, “My dear, we are going to pay a visit.”

“Vera, I’m not—”

            “Not a word! We will get our hats and gloves and take a little ride up the road.”

            “To where?”

            “To see our good friends, the Duke and his son. After all, Agnes, if we do not visit them, who in the world will?”

To be continued . . .

Episode 22: The Storm Breaks

           

Part III. La Donna Sola

Chapter 42

As the sun rose toward its zenith in the perfectly blue sky, Agnes slept on until nearly noon. In this week following the ball, she found it harder each morning to get out of bed. When she opened her eyes on this fair day, she beheld Marie and Stella sitting across the room. Stella was embroidering a tiny cap held fast in a wooden hoop, and Marie was reading her mother’s book of prayers. Their faces wore a concerned look, and they had started keeping a close eye on Agnes, which grated mercilessly on her nerves and violated the solitude she now sought. One or the other of them had surely removed the half- full bottle of Abbé sur Rhône from under the mattress, but she had been too ashamed to ask them when she found it missing. The wine had been a pathetic attempt, she knew, to treat a pain this consuming, and she felt the futility of procuring any more.

            Neither attendant noticed that their patient was awake, so Agnes lay still and waited, letting the new day’s realities gradually line up for review. When she had taken a long look at their full and ghastly measure, she turned her attention, as though for refuge, to a piece of errant lace that dangled from her canopy. I must mention that to Marie, she thought; I keep forgetting, and it’s so bothersome to look at every morning.

            Presently her companions glanced up and, seeing her eyes open, they began humming around her, making her get up and wash and put on fresh clothes. Refusing any breakfast, Agnes took a cup of tea and wandered into the garden. Stella tried to talk with her, but Agnes said she felt like poor company, so the young woman quietly went back to a canvas of morning glories that somehow had not advanced past a middling state since the week before.

            From the dining room windows, Fettles watched Agnes stroll languidly through the garden paths. Having been provided with a complete description of Claudia’s spectacle by the coachman the morning after, he had been beside himself ever since. Although a bachelor, Fettles was a romantic who had thrilled at the sight of Agnes and Phillip together, and more than once made sure they were undisturbed in the garden during the young man’s visits. Love, he told the servants, is a delicate plant that thrives in the shade of seclusion.

            Now he watched the face of his mistress drain of love’s blush, the bloom that was just there yesterday, faded overnight. She looked empty and ate little. At teatime, Dahlia baked a batch of orange biscuits she knew were Agnes’s weakness, and Fettles arranged them beside two white roses on her tray. Leaving the kitchen with these temptations in hand, he overheard two servants in the pantry speculating on Phillip’s fatherhood. Fettles set down the tray and, seizing a nearby rolling pin, strode to their dark nook and brandished it at them. He asked how they thought their mistress would feel if she heard them. If they wanted to lose their positions, they might let him catch them again discussing the matter. The frightened girls returned speedily and silently to their work.

            Claudia had of course sent a card, expressing deepest regret at the appalling events of that evening, which she was powerless to forestall. The timing could not have been more unfortunate, she wrote, and she was miserable at the thought that her gala had been the setting for such an unhappy scene. She begged Agnes to please send word if there was anything she could do to be of help or solace. Agnes tore the scented message into tiny pieces, sprinkled them into the fountain, and watched the splashing water churn them under.

            Each sparkling late summer day dragged on. Agnes longed for night, for the blanket of darkness to hide in. She picked at dinner and retired early with no lamp, usually falling asleep before the sky lost its color. So it was that she was sound asleep the evening the Rockwells came through the front door with their few bags and terrible knowledge. Upon learning that Agnes had retired for the evening, they were relieved that they could also get a night’s sleep before sharing what they had come to tell. Vera arrived an hour behind them, with the faithful Mr. Schmidt. The four took a light supper together, during which Mr. Rockwell indicated only that he had a matter of the utmost importance to the family to discuss, but it would wait until morning when they could all meet with Agnes. Fettles found four bottles of wine left from the celebration earlier in the summer, and the small party finished them off (Mrs. Rockwell abstaining), which was a good deal more than any of them was in the habit of drinking. However, it ensured a sound slumber, mercifully dulling their anticipation of the next day.

            Agnes herself slept deeply until morning. When she opened her eyes, the sun’s first rays had snuck between the curtains and lit up a note left beside her bed sometime during the night. She reached for it and read: Miss Agnes, guests arrived after you retired.  Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell, Vera and Mr. Schmidt. Breakfast at 8:30. I will be up to see you at 8:00.

 –Marie

            The golden hands on the mantel clock read 7:30. What happened? Had she forgotten that they were coming? She threw off the sheet, put her feet into slippers, and rang for Marie. Within moments there came a knock at the door, but to Agnes’s surprise Vera entered. She was dressed in dark trousers, a fitted lace jacket, and an emerald ascot. Agnes stood in her nightdress and stared. “Vera, my dearest, you are getting less conventional every time I see you.”

            Vera strode forward, smiling at the compliment, hugged her niece, and stepped back to look at her. “You don’t look well,” she observed.

            “I’m alright. I’m just surprised to have a visit that I seem to have forgotten about. I’m—I’m not prepared,” she stammered.

            Vera led Agnes to the chaise longue and sat down beside her. “You didn’t forget anything. Abram sent me a message yesterday to be here. I don’t know any more about it than that. Do you?”

            Agnes’s eyes were wide. “I don’t know anything.”

            Vera scrutinized her. “What’s going on?” she asked. “You’ve changed. It’s like—” she searched her niece’s eyes. “Almost like the life has gone out of you.” Vera stroked the pale face. “And you feel warm,” she said, her eyes darkening.

            Marie appeared at the door. Agnes turned back to her aunt and observed slowly, “Oh, I’ll be fine. I must get dressed now.” She rose to her feet. Looking back at Vera, she continued, “Well, I suppose I must tell you a very strange story.” As Marie helped her mistress into a pale blue morning dress, Agnes told Vera about the ball, Dhanesh, and baby Henri. As the tale concluded, Vera for once seemed at a loss for words except to say finally, “Why didn’t you tell me all this? Why didn’t you write to me?”

Agnes shook her head. “I considered it. But I could not bring myself to write it out. Besides,” Agnes continued with a wan smile, “I imagined you would hear about it soon enough with the story no doubt buzzing from one social hive to another.” She drew a breath. “But it seems we must put the whole intrigue aside for the moment as Mr. Rockwell must be bringing us something much bigger to think about.”

            Downstairs, Agnes greeted the Rockwells and Mr. Schmidt, already at breakfast. She noted Abram’s drawn face, so changed from the last time she had seen him. Mrs. Rockwell patted the chair beside her as Fettles drew it back, apologized for the surprise visit, and assured her that they would explain things after breakfast.

Agnes attempted a cheerful face and, while breaking off crumbs from her muffin, congratulated Mr. Schmidt on his accomplishment in winning Vera’s hand. Vera explained that he had worn her down and that’s all there was to it. Frederick could not keep from beaming. Stella came down, and the meal passed with pleasant talk of plans for Vera’s Christmas wedding. Agnes felt a knife turn within her as she remembered her joy just a few weeks ago when she shared with Vera the happy prospect of a wedding of her own. That dream had faded to transparency in the bald light of these past days.

            After breakfast, the party arranged themselves in the drawing room. Stella had offered to withdraw, but Agnes held her hand and insisted that she sit with her. Stella felt the warmth of the hand in hers and only then noticed the new tinge of pink that colored her aunt’s cheeks.

            Agnes sat loosely beside Stella, leaning against the back of the sofa and feeling a wave of deep fatigue wash over her. How she wished Phillip were there to help her hear whatever Mr. Rockwell was about to tell them. But no, she was back to managing by herself, la donna sola, an independent woman. Tears rose in her eyes but she fought them back with the little bit of strength she had. There would probably be some better reason to cry soon enough.

Chapter 43

Mr. Rockwell stationed himself in front of the white marble fireplace and cleared his throat. How small he looks, thought Agnes, and how old. I don’t remember him like this, and only two months have passed since I last saw him. In contrast, Agnes saw his wife as stronger than ever, seated a few feet from him, her large hands folded firmly, her keen eyes training a determined look upon her husband.

            After dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief—the late August day was bright and already warm—Mr. Rockwell began. He started by summing up the previous condition of the Somerset finances and what support Grandma Brown had been providing.  He proceeded from this robust portrait to recount his recent discoveries, beginning with the trip to Philadelphia and ending with the packet from Eleanor that revealed the finality of their new situation.

            “To conclude, then,” said Mr. Rockwell, “your money, Agnes, can only keep Brookside running for, at best, six months, and only that long if you trim expenses. Barring an influx of capital from some unforeseen source, that is where we are.” He cleared his throat again and looked at his wife. “This means that I see no alternative at this time but to advise you to put the estate up for sale as soon as possible, as finding a buyer may take some time.”

            His audience sat frozen. Mr. Rockwell put his hands in his coat pockets and waited for the reactions, the angry questions. He could certainly guess their thoughts. They would be the same thoughts that had been tumbling over and over through his own mind. Could this all be true? How could they sell Brookside? It would be like selling a limb, an organ. Who would this family be without this home where so many had been married, where children had been born and parents had died; where holly had been hung and songs sung every Christmas; where each spring the gardens had welcomed life back and the sparkling fountain told them another winter was over; where they had thrilled to the sound of carriages on the drive, bringing friends and relations to fill the guest rooms with a happy hubbub; where Grandma Brown held class on the terrace, teaching little Somersets to curtsy and use their silverware; where the sun had risen and gone back down upon this family every day for a hundred years?

            When no one spoke, Mr. Rockwell walked over to Agnes and took her hand. His old eyes glistened. “My dear girl, I am wholly unable to express the depth of my regret at this terrible turn in our fortune. I say ‘our’ because I love your family as my own.” Mrs. Rockwell quietly came up and put a hand on her husband’s back. “Your father,” Mr. Rockwell continued, “was much more than a partner to me, and I feel you are another daughter to us. I blame myself even though there may have been no way to prevent what your cousin did. We can only offer now to help in every way possible. But I know that is little comfort, little comfort indeed.”

            Mrs. Rockwell gently handed her husband off to Mr. Schmidt, who led him away hoping to find some brandy to salve the accountant’s breaking heart. Mrs. Rockwell lowered herself onto the sofa and wrapped a sturdy arm around Agnes. Agnes continued to sit motionless, her cheeks glowing with a still brighter flush. On her other side, Stella held her hand fast as tears began to trickle down her own face.  

            “This is a great shock, my dear,” began Mrs. Rockwell. “Don’t try to make sense of it all at once. I am prepared to stay, if you wish, to help sort out what’s to be done. I hope you will let me do at least that.”

            Stella leaned forward. “Mrs. Rockwell, isn’t there some way to avoid selling Brookside? I can hardly even say it, it’s so—it’s so—unthinkable.”

            “Mr. Rockwell will be investigating every possible idea,” she replied. “But we must look for an interested buyer in the meantime and do what seems necessary at the moment.”

            Vera had begun pacing the floor, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “The scoundrels! Brigands! I can’t believe he had the audacity to use Agnes’s inheritance—or that Grandma Brown went along with it. How could she?”

            “Grandma had a story to tell.” Agnes spoke up in a hollow voice. “But she never got to tell me. Now I know what it was. I cannot blame her for what happened—she is not here to tell us her side.”

            “We could go to Europe, Agnes, and look for them,” Vera proposed, her eyes flashing. “They’re not that bright, either one of them—they’ve probably left a trail a blind man could follow.”

            “Aunt Vera, they might not be in Europe,” Stella put in. “You heard Mr. Rockwell: they could be in South America or India or anywhere.”

            “Well, I’m not ready to give up,” replied Vera. “Or to let anyone put Brookside up for sale.”

            Agnes looked around her. Looming over them was the portrait of her father dressed in a black coat that nearly merged with the painting’s background, a more serious cast to his features than they ever wore in life. Her gaze ran over the finely chiseled mantel and black marble hearth. Above their heads hung a golden chandelier rich with prisms. She saw the yellow drapes heavy upon the windows, and beyond them, the bright, hazy morning, and she said in a whisper, “I have lost it, Father. Everything you worked for.” The thought filled her mind, turned her stomach, and she felt hot all over. She pictured Wilbur as he lectured her on the necessity of investment, his face twisted into a condescending smile. Her mind shot to Claudia wrapped in a silken sari and smiling, always smiling. She saw Phillip standing like a fool in front of a silent crowd with a bastard child in his arms.

            Agnes sat up with a strange look on her face. “It’s all right.” She rose to her feet and looked at her listeners, brightening. “Of course there’s no money. Why should I get an inheritance? Why should we have any happy endings here?” Her voice changed as she walked about the room, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. “None of this is supposed to matter after all, is it?” she asked, waving a hand at the grandeur that surrounded them. “The rich man and the eye of the needle. Maybe I should have sold this millstone years ago and joined the convent—that’s what I should have done if I’d any sense at all!” She was nearly screaming now. “What did I think I was doing, perpetuating this place single-handedly, and for what?”

            She looked one by one at the women who surrounded her; they all had a mate, someone to share the burden of life with, even if not perfectly. They did not understand what it meant to carry on the affairs of the great Somerset family alone, including the house they sat in now; to have no prospects, no hope of not being alone, while the years slid by and left their mark. Hot tears filled her eyes. She grabbed a Bavarian candlestick and tossed it to Vera, who caught it easily. A Wedgewood vase sailed toward Mrs. Rockwell, who fumbled it, but deflected it undamaged onto the sofa.

            “Take what you want,” Agnes cried. “We’ll sell the rest or give it to charity.”

            “Agnes!” scolded Mrs. Rockwell.

            “What?” The challenge cut the air. By now everyone could see the red flame that burned on her cheeks and the wild, glassy eyes. “What do I need with these things, with a house like this? Has anyone noticed that there are no children running through these halls, no man to sit down to dinner with—”

            She grabbed a pink-flowered candy dish, and Stella raised her hands. But Agnes threw it wide. It sailed incongruously through the air until it met the stone mantelpiece, which transformed the dainty dish into a spray of chalky fragments. Stella began to cry outright, but the crisp sound of shattering china served to bring her aunt back to herself. Agnes bowed her head, and Vera stepped toward her, but Agnes held out a stiff hand. Carefully she picked up a Venetian paperweight and polished it against her skirt, then raised her head to look out the tall window beside her at the lush lawn beneath ancient oaks. “‘Le destin est railleur.’*  Fate mocks us, my friends.” She stood quiet for a moment and motionless. The women waited. “Still,” she said at last, “I will miss the garden.”

            Saying this, she swayed slightly. Mrs. Rockwell, who was closest, stepped forward and put both arms around her. Vera removed the precious paperweight from her hands, and they took Agnes up to bed, where she fell into a fever that made Ned run for Doctor Bingham and sent Fettles into a near panic. He ordered Dahlia to boil up a gallon of her best chicken broth as well as a variety of herbal teas against whose salubrious effects no illness had yet prevailed.

            “A person can only take so much,” he was heard to mutter as he flew up and down the stairs. “What does He expect of her? What did we all expect?”

To be continued . . .

---

* From Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand.

Episode 21: Rockwell, Swank & Babbidge Dive to the Bottom of Things

Chapter 40

Phillip stood distractedly smoothing the child’s silken hair, uncertain what to do next. Turning, he saw that Agnes and Stella had joined his father, and all three stood staring at him. Behind them the crowd began slowly to disperse. Some guests returned to the ballroom, some called immediately for their carriages. Agnes and her friends withdrew from the now busy drive to the edge of the circle of torches, where she examined the child, looking from his round face to Phillip’s and back again. This was a mixed baby, clearly the product of one fair parent and one dark. His large eyes, rimmed in thick lashes, shone hazel, and his hair and tiny eyebrows were deep brown. His skin was the gentle color of tea with too much cream.

            “He is not mine, Agnes.” Phillip’s voice was decisive, but she did not know what to say.

            The Duke, with a face of stone, declared simply, “It’s time to go home.”

            No one suggested they say goodnight to their hostess. They found their coach and rode to Brookside in silence except for the baby who, once tired of playing with Phillip’s shirtfront, whimpered and squirmed in his lap. A thousand questions collided in Agnes’s mind, but none managed its way to her lips. As they pulled up to her home, she chose hurriedly to ask one.

            “What do you plan to do with him? He’ll have to be fed, you know.”

            “And he must be soaking by now,” put in Stella.

            “Mrs. Morgan will know what to do,” replied the Duke gravely. His housekeeper, a no-nonsense Irish woman, had been with the family since their early days in England. And the Duke knew her well enough to know that she would not quietly accept a baby suddenly falling into her basket of responsibilities.

            Agnes put a hand on Phillip’s as the Duke helped her down. “Now we know the purpose for the ball, don’t we?”

            Phillip raised his eyes to hers. In that moment, the shipwreck that Mrs. Thorne had engineered became clear to him. Their promise to each other, their shining future, had been dashed against the rocks in a single, violent surge. Agnes stroked his cheek once with her gloved hand and said no more, disappearing inside the dark house with Stella.

            Phillip and his father sat numb as the carriage rolled toward home. The crying child made the ride three times its normal length. Upon arriving, the Duke got Mrs. Morgan out of bed and gave her a short description of their situation. The head housekeeper grudgingly took the now sleeping child from Phillip and woke the youngest servant girl. She sent her to the old nursery to get it ready for a new occupant while she herself shuffled to the kitchen to find something to feed the child.

            Phillip and his father faced each other. Phillip could hardly look at the deep disappointment in his father’s face. “We will talk tomorrow,” said the Duke. And the two repaired to their rooms to spend what remained of the terrible night.

            * * *

            After kissing Stella goodnight, Agnes stole through the garden to her secret bench and sat stricken, looking blindly out at the dark fields. Over and over she replayed the night’s scenes: the costumes, the gay walzes, the snake, the Seven Wonders, a grinning Claudia. But mostly she watched again a desperate man tumble out of a carriage and accuse her beloved of seducing his daughter, then handing him the baby that proved it.

            One moment she and Stella were enjoying a splendid evening with two charming men and the next—scandal. And in front of dozens of society’s very best, who would spread the word to dozens more before a day went by. No respectable woman would have anything to do with the Duke’s family now. They were ruined socially, just like Dhanesh’s family, unless Phillip could somehow undo this ugly knot. And what on earth were they to do with this baby? To keep it would mean Phillip fathered it. To abandon it to an orphanage would be despicable.

            So here she was again, deceived. How could she have been so thoroughly wrong about Phillip? She thought she had gotten smarter since M. He said the child was not his, but everything pointed to him. What if it were his son and he had lied to everyone, including her—could she still love him? If she forgave him, could she brave the world’s scorn and stay by his side? Even if he had told her the truth, who else would believe it? They would be alone in the world.

            She thought of her mother. What would she say if she were here? Of course, Mother would never have considered Phillip a serious suitor for her daughter. She would have found him amusing and in some ways admirable, but never a candidate to join the Somerset family. Father probably would have understood more, but Phillip’s doleful employment history would have eliminated him from any possibility with Father.

            And so the afflicted woman sat for hours, clenching and unclenching her skirt, looking for answers in the starry sky, too stunned to even cry, which might have given some relief. The sky lightened, and the horizon turned pink, then pale blue. Agnes saw another day coming up whether she was ready or not. She forced herself to her feet and walked slowly back to the awakening house, where she lay down on her bed without undressing and fell asleep.

* * *

Down the road at Beaujour, the day was also dawning. Most of Claudia’s servants were sleeping later than usual, having been up into the wee hours assisting guests, extinguishing lamps, and storing away the remaining food. Their mistress slept far into the morning, enjoying that deep, dreamless rest of one who has accomplished a long-sought goal. She had gone to bed with a smile on her magnificent lips shortly after the last guest left, after agreeing with everyone that it was a terrible shock how the Indian had disrupted her ball and so very strange that he had caught up with Lord Phillip tonight of all nights, and how damaging this must prove for the Duke’s family, who were such very nice people, really.

            Of course no one should ever find out how she had herself meticulously built the night’s climax. Her connection to remnants of the East India Company was not well known, and her good fortune—finding that her man in Bombay was back in New York City, that he knew the whole story, and that Dhanesh was already careening around the state searching for the runaway father—could hardly be believed. It had required so little to bring the whole beautiful tragedy together. It would take Claudia some time to grasp that she had succeeded in trampling her foe, and quite brilliantly (she could just hug herself) by way of the foolish man poor Agnes was so fond of.

Chapter 41

Misfortunes travel in groups, or so it is said; if one wanders in, his companions are not far behind. Agnes’s life was forming itself into a testament to this truth. Grandma had been buried only a few weeks ago, followed by the debacle in Claudia’s front yard. And now, a third catastrophe was quickening its steps toward Brookside.

            It was lunchtime on the day following Abram Rockwell’s trip to Philadelphia. He had by now assembled the replies to his office’s inquires of the previous evening, and he had to face the shocking picture of what remained of Grandma Brown’s millions. At the Bank of Philadelphia: seven dollars. At the First National Bank of the East: twenty-two dollars. At the First Union Bank: fourteen dollars. Even her interest in the railroad and several smaller but thriving companies had been liquidated. Abram sat at his desk with his head in his hands, staring dumbly at the telegrams spread before him. Two old associates stood in the room, lost in thought, their brows contracted in a mighty effort to find some way around the financial carnage piled before them.

            At length one of them spoke, turning partially from his position at the window. He was a short, wide man, fastidiously dressed, with a few remnants of hair carefully oiled and combed behind his ears. “There’s no way around going to court. Especially if what the wife says is true. It all smacks of outright theft, not investment—not even bad investment.”

            “Of course,” put in his colleague from across the room where he had been leaning against a very full set of bookshelves and absently stroking an unlit pipe. “If it were invested he would have had something to show you. Receipts don’t go traveling, we know that. It’s a bad business, Abram, and the sooner you file the better. You’ll surely get no more information from that villain or his mysterious wife.”

            Mr. Rockwell raised his eyes in a dull stare. “You’re absolutely right, both of you. And I blame myself. How could I not?”

            The two men disagreed strongly. One exclaimed that no one could have foreseen such conduct, and the other pointed out that an embezzler could strike like a snake, and if he’s clever enough, rob a millionaire blind in a matter of days.

            “The essential thing is to get a lien on that house of his immediately,” urged the wide man.

            “Quite right,” said the other.

            Mr. Rockwell, like one emerging from a strongman’s hold, pushed himself to his feet and reached for his hat. He gathered the papers together and added them to his bag. “Gentlemen, there is no time to lose. Mr. Swank”—he turned to the wide man—“would you be willing to accompany me to our legal counsel? I find myself in such a daze, as though I’d had a boxcar dropped on me. I need someone to make sure I am talking sense to our lawyer. Babbidge,” he continued, putting a hand on the arm of the man with the pipe, “Get in touch with our people in Philadelphia and find out anything you can. Make sure they know that I am willing to pay for information.”

            And so two of the senior accountants at Rockwell, Swank, and Babbidge set off for the law offices of Gray, Heinrich, Stubbins to start the ugly process of declaring a possible crime and taking measures to safeguard any of the perpetrator’s goods that they might lay claim to. Two questions haunted the men as they made their way to the attorneys’ offices situated in the bustling streets around city hall: Was this indeed a crime if Wilbur had done everything legally, and had his house already been surrendered to other creditors?

            By evening of the following day, the men had their answers, thanks to the excellent work of Mr. Babbidge and the arrival of a small package by special delivery. The package came in the late afternoon, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Mr. Rockwell. It bore no return address and looked like something hastily assembled. The address was written in a large, hurried hand, probably female. As soon as the office boy delivered it into Mr. Rockwell’s hands, the old gentleman suspected somehow that it must relate to the case. Taking it to his desk, followed closely by Messrs. Swank and Babbidge, he took a sharp scissors to one end and carefully cut it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out the contents.

            In his hand were a stack of what appeared to be receipts, some formal, others just scribbled notes. As the accountants spread them out, they realized that they were not looking at receipts but rather promises of payment. Some bore the stamp of casinos as far away as Geneva. Others were scrawled reminders from individuals of debts owed. Some included the name of the debtor: Wilbur Brown. Mr. Rockwell stared at the collage of papers with uncomprehending eyes. He looked back in the packing to see if he had missed anything and extracted a single sheet of fine stationery, written in the same urgent hand as the address. He read aloud in a low voice:

                                                                        August 188__

            Mr. Rockwell,

            You must be told the truth now or else waste a great deal of time and effort in finding it out yourself.

            There are no investments. There was one, of a very unsavory nature, that I shall not reveal, but as my husband was dealing with unscrupulous foreigners in that venture, it is not surprising that they took his portion and disappeared.

            Again, I had nothing to do with that or what you see before you now. W. developed a taste for gambling in France, and for a while he was able to cover his debts. Then he managed to hold his creditors at bay as only he can. However, several months ago he was obliged to start paying them to avoid outright scandal, which would have been unfortunate for the family, as I am sure you would agree. His debts had grown so large that [here the writer had crossed out a word and started again] steps had to be taken.

            As far as I know, all of Grandma’s money is gone, and the house as well. If I believed in God, I would pray for forgiveness for my husband and wish some sort of providential care for the family. As it is, I can simply send you and Agnes my regrets that things turned out as they did.

                                                                                    E. B.

            Mr. Swank hurried to a side cabinet and poured a tall glass of brandy and water for his colleague, who was sinking into his chair. Babbidge spoke first.

            “Abram, I was just going to tell you when I was interrupted by the arrival of this parcel. I received a telegram from one of my people in Philadelphia not an hour ago. The Brown’s house is now the property of First National. It was signed over only two weeks ago for payment of debt. Moreover, the Wilbur Browns seem to have sailed for other shores yesterday afternoon. Someone was dispatched to the house to check the story, and it was true. The servants said they had packed and loaded several trunks into a carriage and the two brigands left, telling no one where they were headed. I’m told they left without paying the staff their wages due, and our man saw several of them putting silver into bags and carrying away paintings. It was chaos.” Mr. Babbidge paused for his friend to absorb this news. He wished there was some way to soften it, to make something better of it. Instead he could only conclude, “It seems they have gotten away, Abram.”

            Mr. Rockwell looked up. “And their lawyer? Their accountant?”

            “One and the same, and he has disappeared as well.”

            “They could be headed anywhere,” reflected Mr. Swank. “Europe, South America, even India. They must have kept enough cash on hand to pay for steamer tickets and living expenses. Might even be traveling under assumed names. They’re needles in a haystack now.”

            Mr. Babbidge sat down across from his beleaguered colleague. “To make this tragedy complete,” he went on quietly, “our attorneys have determined that the documents Wilbur used to extract money from his grandmother are quite legal—dastardly but legal. We probably have no recourse there.”

            The gentlemen were silent. On the mantle a very old clock ticked away the seconds. From down on the street, floating into the still room from an open window, the clatter of horses and shouts from rowdy cabbies seemed part of another world entirely.

            “Who could have imagined?” sighed Mr. Rockwell, sitting back in his softly creaking chair. He took a slow sip of the ruddy brandy and raised his eyebrows as though about to make an observation, but only stared mutely at his littered desktop.

            Close by, the great bell of St. Martin’s tolled six. The dolorous sound spoke of more than the hour to the three men, who heard in it a reminder of the timeless struggle between virtue and vice. Deep in its solemn voice the bell spoke also of that final day of victory, which to these defeated men, felt very far away.

* * *

            Mrs. Rockwell took in the news of the Somerset family’s financial ruin like a Buddha, her face immutable, her figure motionless on the velvet divan. In all matters, she was her husband’s most respected councilor, but he had put her off for two days before sharing the tale. He wanted to get it all out at once, not just one ugly piece at a time. Tonight, he had come home and asked to delay dinner. He led his wife into the parlor saying that he had a story to tell, which he recounted in a clear and dispassionate manner. But the hunch in his shoulders, his slow pacing back and forth as the words came out, the fixed expression of wonder in his eyes, betrayed that he was at the very limit of what he knew how to bear. When he had told everything, including a description of the packet from Eleanor followed by Babbidge’s news that all of Wilbur’s crimes were done within the law, his voice stopped, but he continued to walk absently about the room.

            Mrs. Rockwell sat quietly for a few moments, her hands folded across her generous lap. One could almost hear her mentally cataloguing the facts, considering the repercussions, and arranging in order of practicality the possibilities for action. When she was satisfied, she put a hand on the cushion beside her and asked, “My dear, can you sit?”

            Abram Rockwell sat down beside his wife. She rested a hand on his leg and asked, “What do you intend to do?”

            Mr. Rockwell sighed deeply, his gaze resting on the dark fire grate across from them. “I must go to Brookside and tell Agnes in person. Immediately. First I’ll check what remains in her own accounts so I can give her a full report all around. But we both know that she needed Irene Brown’s money. It was she who paid the taxes on the estate each year. They come due next month. That alone will wipe out much of Agnes’s reserve. Even if Agnes trims her staff to a minimum, there will be enough left to keep the house running for, at best, six months—maybe less.”

            “She will have to sell?”

            “I see no other course.”

            Mrs. Rockwell frowned and considered. Then she straightened her shoulders and announced, “I am going with you. She will need a woman at a time like this. We will tell her together, then you can arrange the legal matters. I might stay a few days to help her think. And we should bring Vera along, if the woman isn’t off exploring the western frontier.”

            Abram turned his eyes directly on his wife for the first time that evening. “You are a singular woman,” he observed with a touch of amazement in his voice. “I know you will be a great help to her.” His gaze shifted and his eyes welled up. “I feel this is my fault, Doris. I should have noticed somehow, taken more precautions, checked more frequently—”

            “Abram!” Doris Rockwell took her husband’s face in her hands. “You are a competent and conscientious man. This is Wilbur’s fault, and Eleanor’s. They did the thieving. Don’t let me hear you say that again.”

            Abram Rockwell slumped against his wife, who enclosed him in the protection of her arms, and they remained that way as the room darkened into evening. At last a servant tapped gently on the parlor door and, hearing nothing, carefully opened it to inquire if they would be wanting dinner. Mrs. Rockwell asked that a plate of food be brought up to their rooms and stated that they would be leaving the next day for Brookside.

To be continued . . .