Episode 26: Henri Moves In and Wilbur Does Business With Some Corsicans

Chapter 50

What a joy it is when man’s inventiveness produces something truly needed. Mrs. Williams returned from town with ten bottles of Mr. Nestlé’s miraculous new infant formula, which was all the Chesterton Market had on hand. She proceeded to mix some with boiled water and filled a baby bottle with it. Agnes and Vera watched closely as she fitted the bottle with a rubber nipple, then Agnes gratefully handed her the screaming baby. Sitting down in a kitchen chair, the housekeeper offered the substitute breast to the squirming child in her arms. So great was his distress that he entirely ignored the nipple she touched to his open mouth. She rocked and clucked and coaxed, but little Henri only wailed with renewed vigor as Agnes, Vera, Stella, Fettles, and Dahlia stood together watching anxiously.

            “He doesn’t know what it is,” said Mrs. Williams over the din. “Dahlia, get the molasses.”

            Dahlia pulled down the jar of sweet, thick syrup and swabbed the nipple generously. Mrs. Williams offered it again, touching it to the baby’s tongue. Gradually his little mouth closed around it and his sobs trailed off as he began to suck. The onlookers clutched one another in relief, and Vera started to send up a cheer until Mrs. Williams stopped her with a finger to her lips. The famished child drained the bottle to within the last ounce before falling asleep against the good lady’s comfortable bosom. One little arm lay across his chest, the other dangled free, and in this sweet silent state he looked for all the world like an angel in their midst. Mrs. Williams threw a kitchen cloth over her shoulder, put the child against it, and patted him gently. A bubble of gas softly escaped his parted lips, and satisfied, she rose carefully and took him upstairs to bed.

            Agnes, Vera, and Stella followed her on tiptoe and stood around the crib watching his sleeping form. Agnes whispered to her housekeeper, “How will we hear him when he wakes up?”

            “Oh,” replied Mrs. Williams, “we’ll all be checking on him, won’t we? I’ll move into the adjoining room so that I’ll hear him at night.”

            Agnes protested, but Mrs. Williams put up her hand and would not allow any discussion. “Only for this first week,” she warned. “After that you ladies can manage everything yourselves.”

            Stella followed Mrs. Williams out of nursery, but Vera held Agnes back. “Agnes,” she said in a low voice, “the formula is expensive. Mrs. Williams says he will drink a lot of it, and at fifty cents a bottle the cost will mount quickly. I’ll leave you some money for it, and don’t scrimp. In a couple of months she says he’ll be ready to try cow’s milk. But by then you will probably have found another arrangement, God willing.”

            Agnes looked at the tiny boy, his fist curled beside his tranquil face, the black hair lying in careless disarray about his head. Another arrangement. What would that be? The orphanage? Or maybe Phillip would take him back. She put a hand on his warm head and felt her heart sink.

            “Don’t get attached to him,” warned Vera gently. “He may disappear to another home before we know it.”

            Agnes sighed and assured her that she herself was simply caring for this child as any Christian would, nothing more. She had no plans to attach herself to one more thing that might soon be snatched from her.

The week passed quickly. Each day Mrs. Williams gave the three ladies pointers on handling a baby and feeding, diapering, and washing it. Stella observed each operation closely and took every opportunity to practice on little Henri. It made the advent of her own child more real, she said, and her excitement was obvious. She talked more and more about her husband William and began arranging her departure. After all, she had used up all her art paper, and traveling to Chicago would only get more difficult for her the longer she waited.

            But the first to leave for home was Vera. On the morning of her departure, a few early-turning leaves had already fallen and lay thinly about in a dull yellow scatter. Ned loaded her trunk onto the carriage once goodbyes had been said three times all around, and still the ladies stood on the front steps with little Henri bundled up on Agnes’s hip. Vera was promising to return before Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving—the very word sent a twinge through Agnes.

            “Better yet,” said Vera, “you must come to New York. Get away from all this for a while. I can introduce you to my friends, whose strange situations and dreadful problems can’t help but improve your spirits.”

            Agnes said yes, maybe. In any case, she would certainly be there for Christmas and Vera’s wedding. Everyone indulged in one more hug, the tearful aunt kissed the baby again, and Ned helped her into the compartment and closed the door. Agnes and Stella stood in the cool morning air and watched her disappear from sight, feeling her absence already.

            Vera had been gone only an hour when Phillip arrived. Every few days he had been stopping by faithfully to inquire about the baby and ask if anything was needed, leaving a stipend even though he was always told that nothing was wanting. These visits were always short and somewhat strained. A cup of tea, remarks about the child’s health and feeding habits, pleasantries about the weather and brief reports on Phillip’s activities. Then he would be gone. Agnes saw more and more that something had gotten broken between them, like a bone that had been snapped and never set.

            This visit was no different but for Phillip’s announcement that he himself would be gone for a couple of weeks or so to take charge of a small farm to the north that he and his father had just acquired. He handed Agnes a packet containing funds sufficient for the care of the child until his return. Although the boy was not his, he repeated, he was at present responsible for his maintenance and was deeply in debt to Agnes and her family for their care of him. He was earnestly searching for a permanent home for the child and would relieve Agnes of him as soon as possible.

            Agnes walked outside with him and watched as he swung up onto his horse. Standing just a few feet from him she felt a yawning chasm between them. It had become impossible to picture touching him again, sitting wrapped in his arms, kissing his mouth. From his saddle Phillip gave her a long look. For a moment she saw the old Phillip, his eyes full of a thousand thoughts yet to be spoken, a promise of brilliance, a deep well of sweet affection waiting to be plumbed. Then he vanished, and the sad and preoccupied man returned to wave farewell and ride away.

            The next day the rain began in earnest and continued for two weeks. Agnes and Stella sat inside like new prisoners unused to confinement, now and then walking to the front door and looking out at the puddled drive, wondering how deep the clouds were and how far they stretched west and how distant was a clear blue sky. They tried to remember the feel of fair weather, dry garden paths dotted with shade, soft grass to sit on, the warm slate of the terrace in late afternoon.

            Agnes’s thoughts often strayed to the mother of the child in her arms. She wondered how a woman, even a frightened one without resources, could leave her own child behind. But Rupa must be still a child herself, trying blindly to survive by her own wits. Where did she go after leaving the convent? Was she even still alive? How much of her sad story would this child ever know?

            Then the renewed patter of drops striking the windows brought her back. Henri’s teeth had begun to push through his tender gums, turning the sweet baby into a fussy, whimpering thing who could not be pleased. Through the long hours of these soggy days, Agnes and Stella took turns picking him up and walking slowly through the dim rooms.

Chapter 51

A man alone on the night streets of Marseilles was not necessarily in peril. Even if he were unsure of the way back to his hotel, he had little to fear if he kept his wits about him or if his obvious poverty told thieves he was not worth robbing. However, a well-dressed stranger who swayed as he wandered the tight streets, each of which appeared in the dark very much like the one before—a man who had just won an enviable sum at a poker table—this man ran a good chance of falling into mischief before reaching the bed he so keenly longed for.

            Wilbur, on this late summer night, with a light salty breeze blowing in from the sea, was just such a man. Indeed, the night was so pleasant that he hardly minded that he seemed to be getting no closer to his destination no matter how many blocks he walked. The wine and rum—of which he had imbibed considerably more after leaving La Violette and stopping into a bar a few doors down—had worked together to dull his sensibilities and tranquilize his habitual suspicion so that he did not notice the three shadows dogging his steps at a precise distance. If we were there to watch the progress of these silent Corsicans, who had followed their prey out of La Coquette, we might well imagine that they were only waiting until they reached a sufficiently dark and deserted part of the city to engage the gentleman in a short debate as to who should most properly be in possession of the roll of bills that filled his trouser pocket. Who knows—the trio might also hope to convince him that he would be more comfortable if they relieved him of the heavy silver pocket watch they had seen him consult more than once during the evening.

            Fortunately for our little band, Wilbur eventually strayed into just such a quarter as befit these transactions. Mr. Brown paused on a dreary corner and pulled out the watch just mentioned, straining to see in the pale moonlight that the hands pointed to ten minutes past two. It was at this moment that his attention was arrested by the sharp end of an object pressing much too harshly against his lower back, while two pairs of strong hands gripped his arms, the better to steady him. The man directly behind him spoke a few words that he did not understand, while one large hand closed around his watch and another jerked the chain from its loop. At this Wilbur let out the first quarter note of a shout before another hand, no doubt belonging to the remarkably coarse face that flashed before him, cuffed him squarely under the jaw, indicating that these men preferred the universal language of silent negotiation. Wilbur felt a blow to his stomach that, in combination with the previous one to his chin, brought him fully awake, so he felt with perfect clarity the impact of the brick wall against his spine. Deftly, two of the men emptied his pockets in a blink as he lay against the wall, gasping for breath.

            Remembering the knife deep in an inner pocket, Wilbur pushed his hand down inside to see if it was still there. Somehow the men had missed it. He drew it out and opened the blade awkwardly as the companions drifted down the street, seemingly confident that the well-dressed gentleman would be resting for some time in the heap he had fallen into. Wilbur was not ordinarily a brave man—quite the contrary. So it is hard to explain why he chose to gain his feet and follow his new acquaintances, or why, when they turned, he lunged at the ugly one and planted his knife in the man’s upper chest. Maybe it was his fury at being robbed, for this was his first experience receiving rather than inflicting that injustice. Maybe he was at the point in his barren life when he no longer cared if it continued another day or not. Or perhaps the alcohol urged him forward in a way his sober mind would never have allowed.

            In any case, his rash reprisal was quickly met with a counterattack. All three men, being sentimental creatures at heart, carried long, sharp knives with them at all times, souvenirs from their homeland. While the ugly man fell back to nurse his wound, his companions made quick work of Wilbur, stabbing him once each with an exactitude that testified to their experience in this profession. As Wilbur crumpled with a look of astonishment on his face, the men wiped their blades briefly on his coat, returned them to their sheaths, and hooking arms with their damaged comrade, hurried off into the dark.

            It all happened with barely a sound. Wilbur lay across a doorstep looking up at a starry sky, aware only of a creeping coldness in his limbs and an inability to move. After a few moments or hours, he could not tell, he became aware of someone standing beside him. With great effort he turned his head. A man, darker even than the darkness around him, stood as though waiting. Wilbur wondered why this person was here but found he could not speak. Still, the man responded as though he had.

            “It’s almost time to go,” the dark man said quietly. Where? Wilbur thought, staring at the face he could not make out.

            “Somewhere you have never been but will always be.”

            I hate riddles, Wilbur thought. He could no longer feel his body.

            The dark man pulled Wilbur to his feet. He held him up easily and looked deep into his puzzled eyes. “I’m very sorry.” He spoke the simple words with such compassion that a thrill of terror ran through Wilbur, a terror that could have filled the universe. Immediately, a powerful whirl of warm but noiseless wind pulled him from that dirty street and the world it lay upon.

            In the first gray light of day, a charwoman shuffling toward the counting house of Frères Lafèvre squinted at the dark shape before the door. Coming up to it she cursed and set down the tools of her trade. This would be a fine mess to clean up, she grumbled as she pushed and pulled the stiff, well-dressed gentleman out of the way, unlocked the heavy door, and began the day’s chores with more than her customary ill humor. Nearly an hour would pass before a gendarme, walking his usual morning patrol, would find Wilbur and round up a cart to take him to the morgue.

To be continued . . .