Episode 29: Two Good-byes Too Many

Chapter 56

Phillip raised the old knocker and tapped it twice, gently. In the quiet of the gray afternoon, it sounded sharp and resolute against the brass plate. Almost instantly Fettles opened and admitted him into the dim foyer. Napolean stood at attention, eyeing the guest eagerly.

            Phillip looked at the animal with a mixture of surprise and distrust. He was struck for the first time at how dog and butler shared the same spare frame, both bodies appearing nearly weightless. “I see you are getting along well with the dogs?”

            “Very well, sir.” Fettles replied, restraining himself from telling the story of how their relations had warmed. Instead he offered their visitor tea, which was declined, and before he could step away to summon his mistress, she appeared on the stairs. She was pulling baby Henri’s rag from her shoulder, having just put him down for a nap.

            “I have good news,” Phillip announced without smiling.

             “Yes?” asked Agnes. She knew why he had come and could feel her stomach contract.

            “First,” said Phillip, remembering himself, “How are you? How is the baby?”

            “We are both very well.”

            “It seems we have found a home for him,” he declared, “at least for now.”

            Agnes stared at him for a moment, then walked slowly to a chair in the parlor and sat down.

            “How soon?” she asked, looking at the swirling leaf pattern of the deep green carpeting.

            “Friday.” He took a step toward her. “They are good Christians. They attend the Methodist church in town and are very well spoken of. They have only one girl and are anxious for more children.”

            “Who are they?” asked Agnes.

            “Reverend and Mrs. Thoroughgood. And they understand that the child is not—well, that he has one foreign parent. They are very broad-minded.” Phillip turned his hat another revolution in his hands. “We’re terribly fortunate, really.”

            Agnes raised her eyes to his. “Are we?” Absently she rose and walked to the Swiss music box beside the sofa. She traced the mother-of-pearl inlay with a finger, then raised the lid and slowly cranked the golden handle back and forth. A bright, tinkling melody filled the room. Fortunate, he had said. No, we are certainly the two unluckiest people in the entire world. Torn apart in the full bloom of romance, we are like victims who survive a hurricane only to find that everything they had built lies in splinters—indeed, that even the ground itself has been carried out to sea.

Philip came close beside her.     “You must let the little fellow, go, Agnes. . . . And me,” he added.

            “Ah, so you finally say it!”

            “You must find someone else, Agnes.” Phillip looked impatiently at the cheery music box and abruptly shut it. “I’m no good to anyone now. I cannot possibly ruin your future with my own taint of scandal. You deserve so much better than that.”

            “My future?” Agnes said pointedly. “What would that be, precisely? The home I have poured myself into will soon fall into other hands. I have no money. I am nearly past marrying age, and now even little Henri—“ she broke off.

            “So how would you have it, then?” Phillip asked with unmistakable iciness. “We should get married, live with my father, and raise the little bastard child? Would that work well?”

            Agnes looked at him, startled. “Why are you speaking like this?”

            Phillip had taken on a hardened look. “Because one of us has to say it. You know as well as I do that it cannot happen, not in the world we live in.”

            “We could go somewhere else,” she heard herself saying.

            “No! I have been dashing all over looking for a safe place my whole life, Agnes, and I am tired. I’m sick of it!” He circled her chair. “You know I’ve started managing the farm father bought up north. I pray God that I finally succeed at something. The place has a terrible little house on it, more sunken than standing, but it will do for me. But you—you deserve so much better, in every way. I cannot put you there. I cannot sentence you to a life with me.”

            “Why can’t I decide?” she cried.

            He had passed behind her and now bent slightly to put his cheek against hers. “Let go, Agnes. You must let go—you know that.”

            Agnes stiffened and drew in a long, slow breath. “I am disappointed in you, my love. I thought you would have more courage than this.” Agnes felt Phillip pull back but she continued without turning. “Do you understand how many things I am giving up right now? That’s all I seem to do anymore.”

            Phillip walked around to face her. His features were stern. “I am sorry if I disappoint you, Agnes,” he said hollowly. “I do this more for you than for myself. I hope one day you will see that.”

            As she looked at him standing pompously upon that ludicrous statement, a new idea seeped into her mind. As it advanced, it cleared away all the useless detail of the past several weeks. One truth stood alone on the raw landscape, naked before her. Of course—this was never going to work, not from the very first day. You silly girl, why didn’t you see it sooner? Oh, what a fine disguise it has worn all along. She had prided herself in recognizing this feature even under the many costumes men cloaked it with, but not this time. Somehow this man had completely fooled her.

            “What is it?” Phillip asked, uncomfortable beneath her silent and wondering stare.

            Agnes clutched her skirt and wandered halfway across the room. She stood with her back to him, wondering how much to say. What if she was wrong? She turned to look at him in this new and dismal light. No, this explained too much.

            “I have been very foolish,” she said at last. She saw Phillip’s face begin to relax almost imperceptibly. “But not for the reason you think.” She moved behind the sofa and fingered the Italian lace runner that lay across its back, another gift from her father to her mother. What a wonderful life they had, she mused, reminded again of the precious thing that was fleeing once again beyond her grasp.

            “This was never going to actually happen, was it?”

            “What do you mean?” Phillip asked cautiously.

            “This lovely romance of ours. A wedding. A life as man and wife and children and all those things that a girl dreams of in her idle time.”

            Phillip waited.

            Agnes toyed with an ivory rosette between her fingers. “You have reasons for not having married by now, Phillip. Something always happens to ruin it, I imagine. And something always will.” She looked up.

            “What are you saying?” he asked, searching her face.

            “A summer of amusement was fine—some rendezvous in the garden, a new person to make the time pass pleasantly . . .  But you are simply not the matrimonial type, are you, my dear?” She looked at him. “Vera was right, and I should have listened.”

            “You’re saying that I never meant to marry you, then?” Phillip stammered. “That I was merely leading you on for my own pleasure?”

            “Maybe you didn’t mean to. But you also were never going to let it end in marriage.”

            Phillip took a step forward. “Do you really dare to speculate this way about my feelings, my motives? Why, you are accusing me of toying with you, like the lowest sort of scoundrel! You can’t mean it, Agnes.” Phillip turned away, then back again. “All this time I thought I had finally found someone who could really know me. A woman who could love me with all my flaws and my quirks, and the good parts, too. I have some good qualities, Agnes. My God, I thought you knew me.” By now he stood over her, nearly shouting.

            “I thought so too,” Agnes replied without moving. “But note this well: You are ending this, not me. Ask yourself why.”

            Drawn by the loud voices, Fettles arrived at a trot and stopped in the doorway. Agnes warned him off with a look.

            Phillip stepped back, studying her. At length he shook his head and picked up the hat he had laid on a table. “I will send Mrs. Morgan Friday morning for the child.”

            The statement reverberated inside Agnes’s head. She searched but found no words. Mute, she brushed past Phillip and retreated noiselessly up the carpeted stairs. The great silence of midday hung in her wake.

            Donning his hat, Phillip found his own way out.

Chapter 57

On the morning that Mrs. Morgan was to reclaim the little boy, he sat in his wheeled chair, playing with the tassels that hung from the sofa cushions. He glowed from a fresh scrubbing and floundered inside a new suit of clothes that was still a bit large for him. Agnes could not help looking out the window every few minutes to see if the Duke’s somber housekeeper was in the drive. They had packed up all of Henri’s clothing and effects the night before, and the black trunk sat somberly beside the front door. Empress had parked herself a few feet from the baby. Maybe she sensed that today something threatened their hold on this child, and her posture seemed to tell everyone that she was prepared to defend the boy against all challenges.

            Outside a stiff breeze troubled the gray day and sent fallen leaves scuttling across the ground. Agnes pushed the drapes as far back as possible to admit a little more light. It had been sunny earlier when she took Henri in his buggy for one last walk through the garden. She had stopped to pluck a lingering petunia and tickle his nose with it, a game that always made him laugh uncontrollably, squinting his eyes and pulling his little arms together. This morning she tried to store up the sound of that laughter for later, but it floated off on the wind, going the way of all tender things that make up the most precious parts of our lives.

            Agnes pulled back from the window.

            Mrs. Williams stopped dusting the curios. “Is she here?”

            Agnes nodded gravely.

            The two women waited for the sound of the knocker. It came, heavy and demanding. Empress raised her head and tensed. Fettles arrived, for once walking slowly, taking his time. He knew this child’s removal would take away from Agnes her last reason to smile. He allowed Mrs. Morgan a full second round of hammering, then slowly pulled open the door and admitted her. In her long black coat, the woman closely resembled an iron rod. An admirer of the queen of England, Mrs. Morgan had chosen to imitate that great lady’s continual mourning for the Prince of Wales. This marked the twentieth year of Mrs. Morgan’s wrapping herself in black since the tragic death of her own husband who had fallen off the seat of his cab going at full tilt, probably in consequence of a too-liberal round of refreshment at his favorite tavern. His locally famous tumble had left the cab driverless for the rest of its journey and deposited the passengers, once the horses finally came to halt, in an altogether unknown patch of country. With one wheel badly damaged, the bewildered group had no choice but to unharness the horses and lead them back the way they had come, a walk that required several hours through record-breaking heat. Mrs. Morgan championed her husband as blameless in the whole affair, somehow managing to make him the victim rather than the cause in every telling, and everyone knew better than to suggest otherwise in her presence. 

            “Is the child ready?” she asked by way of greeting. Her small, dark eyes glistened with the seriousness of her mission.

            Fettles said nothing but showed her into the parlor. Mrs. Morgan swept the scene with a critical look.

            “I’m here for the child,” she pronounced.

            Agnes, Fettles, and Mrs. Williams exchanged glances. Neither woman moved, transfixed by the awful prospect of handing their soft little darling into the courier’s steely grip. Mrs. Williams reached down and lifted Henri carefully from his chair. Agnes darted to her and took the baby. She held him tight against her and covered his dark, silky head with her hand. She looked around at the three people before her as they watched the color drain from her face and hands. Mrs. Morgan stepped forward and stuck out her black-gloved hands. Agnes felt everything in her rise up in revolt.

            “Give him here, now. They’re expecting him.”

            Agnes did not move.

            Mrs. Morgan shot a look at the others and pursed her pale lips. She turned to Fettles. “Put his things in the carriage, will you?”

            Fettles looked at his mistress inquiringly.

            Agnes shook her head slowly, her eyes pleading.

            “For the love of Mary, what’s the meaning of this?” Mrs. Morgan demanded. “I’ve not got all day. I’m taking the little burden off your hands, you know. We’re lucky someone is willing to take him.” She came closer and made a motion to take the baby from Agnes.

            Pulling back and holding Henri more tightly still, Agnes suddenly turned, fled from the room, and raced upstairs. The startled party heard a door slam, and Fettles thought he could just make out the key turning in the lock.

            Mrs. Morgan, gasping in outrage, made a move to follow her, but Empress had taken the hem of her dress in her jaws and held her fast. Napoleon, by nature every man’s friend, stood at a yard from the woman and silently displayed his teeth. Fettles took charge and asked Mrs. Williams if she would please attend to Miss Somerset, then suggested to Mrs. Morgan that they deliver the child to her later in the day, apologizing for the great trouble she had gone to and assuring her that all would be made right shortly.

            The widow’s consternation was so deep that she could only stare at Fettles, then at the dogs, and back at the butler. Fettles, feeling that she had been sufficiently convinced of the enmity of the entire household, reproached Empress, who dropped the damp hem. He then stood between Napoleon and the visitor so she might exit in safety.

            Locking the heavy door behind her, Fettles ran upstairs. Mrs. Williams and Marie were both listening at the bedroom door to Agnes’s muffled voice.

            “. . . so who am I? I am invisible! Everything happens around me and to me and all I can do is sit by and stop up the bleeding. Now I am supposed to sit here, again, and hand you over to that monstrous woman? She’ll take you away and give you to God only knows whom.” Her voice went back and forth as one pacing about the room.

            Fettles signaled the two ladies to make room and moved close to the door. “Miss Agnes, may I come in? Mrs. Morgan is gone.”

            There was silence for a moment. “She’s gone?”

            “Yes, ma’m. I sent her away. May I come in?”

            The lock turned slowly, but the door remained closed. Fettles knocked a warning and went in, closing the door behind him. Agnes stood in the middle of the room, clutching herself. Little Henri was pulling himself to his feet with the help of her quilt, which he held in his fists like a man climbing a rock face. Fettles put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders.

            “I don’t think I can stand this,” she said, not looking up. “I’m exhausted and I’m angry and I don’t know how to get my breath anymore. I pray for strength, but every day feels harder than the one before.” She looked at her butler. “I feel like a piece of floating wreckage, Fettles—I can’t steer myself in any direction, I’m simply tossed at the whim of the waves.”

            Fettles drew her over to the tall bed where little Henri was carefully working his way sideways in short, jabbing steps. The two friends sat on the edge side by side.

            Agnes wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “This all looks very irrational, doesn’t it?”

            “Not at all. I know how much you love this little boy. But it is true,” his voice softened “that we cannot keep the baby. I think you know that.”

            “Yes, I know that. I hate it, though. I never dreamed I would get so attached to him. What did you tell Mrs. Morgan?”

            “That we would bring the baby to her this afternoon.”

            “I can’t do it, Fettles, I cannot physically place this child into her hands.”

            “We’ll send Mrs. Williams or Maria.”

            Agnes sat silent and fingered the fabric of her soft skirt. “I want that family who’s getting him to know that, if for any reason, they change their mind about him, we will take him back. Can we tell them that?”

            “Yes, I will make sure they know.” Fettles replied warmly. Agnes put her arms around his thin neck and hugged him as when she was a child.

“Fettles,” she murmured, “do you remember when I fell from my horse when I was eleven? You were the one who read to me by the hour and bribed the kitchen staff to make me puddings and tarts. I know I was very gloomy and you tried so hard to cheer me up.” After a pause she added, “You have been a wonderful friend to me all these years.”

            Fettles smiled and, pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, offered it to Agnes. “I remember. And we played many games of hearts as well. You hated losing,” he reminded her.

            Agnes looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, I hate losing. I’ve never been philosophical about it.”

           After several minutes the two friends straightened themselves, picked up Henri, and walked slowly downstairs to feed him one last meal in the warmth of the old kitchen.

To be continued . . .