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.
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