Chapter
62
Claudia passed her hand
over the contract, examining again the signatures and seals. She hardly heard
Mr. Edwin Rood, branch manager for Sutterfield Brothers, repeat her name.
Looking up at last, she saw him extending a large key toward her.
“They dropped it off just this morning on their way out,”
he smiled.
Claudia took it from him and felt its weight. Brookside. The key to the front door.
“There are many others,” Mr. Rood continued, picking up a
bag that jangled as he placed it on the table before her. “They are all
labeled. Very thoughtful people, the Somersets.”
Claudia folded the contract, grabbed the bag of keys, and
rose. “So they are completely done there, are they?”
“Yes, ma’m.”
“Good. A week from today you’ll put Beaujour on the
market. And I don’t want any surprises—viewings will be by appointment only,
you understand.”
“We will need to work up a complete listing agreement and
proposed terms of sale—“
“Of course. We can take care of all that when I come by
next.”
Mr. Rood glanced at his associate as much as to say “What
can one do with the woman?” but only replied, “Very good.”
Claudia paused.
She still needed these men’s help to effect a profitable sale. She
extended her hand to Mr. Rood and bestowed a smile. “I can’t thank you enough,
Mr. Rood. To do all this in the absence of my husband, well, it’s been difficult,
and you’ve been wonderful.”
The lawyer blinked slowly and smiled. “It has been our
pleasure, Mrs. Thorne.”
With a final warm look for both men, she gathered herself
up and exited. Mr. Rood looked down from the front window as she boarded her carriage,
then tugged two windows open to drive away the thick smell of lilac perfume.
* * *
Phillip rode home from Brookside
with the reins slack, letting Queen Anne set her own pace. She seemed to sense
his despondency and walked gently, now and then turning her head to the side as
though checking that he was still in the saddle. The trip north took over twice
as long as the joyous ride south, and Phillip rode past his father’s house
without stopping.
The day was waning as he reached home and walked into the
barn. To his surprise, he found that his father was still there, hardly
recognizable in old dungarees and a rough jacket, helping Richmond toss fresh
hay into the stalls with the gusto of one who has at last found his true
calling. Phillip was only a few feet from his father when this hearty laborer
caught sight of him, uttering a cry of greeting. The Duke planted his pitchfork
in the ground, narrowly missing his own boot, and beamed at his son. Although
he could not make out the young man’s face clearly in the dim barn, the droop
of his shoulders and drag in his step told him that things had not gone well.
“What’s wrong? Did you read her the letter?”
Phillip sat down heavily on a milking stool. Richmond lit a lantern and
hung it from a low beam, then led Queen Anne away for a good brushing. The
lantern cast a golden light over the two men, the pile of soft hay, and the old
wooden stalls. The Duke pulled a short bench over and sat facing his son, his
hands on his knees. He listened as Phillip recounted what he had found at Brookside.
“Do
you know where she’s gone?” asked the Duke, frowning.
“No. Maybe to the City, maybe to Chicago.”
“We can find out.”
Phillip hung his head. “Maybe we should let it be. Maybe
the letter will not make such a great difference after all. She only thought I
was toying with her anyway--”
“Let it be?” exclaimed the Duke. “Are you ready to give
up? Are you really? On a woman like that?”
“Do you forget our last conversation, Father, hers and
mine? She called me a cad. She didn’t even believe I loved her. I wonder why I
even went back today.”
The Duke sat silent, as one fighting to control himself.
Then he grabbed his son by the shoulders and pulled him closer. Startled, Phillip
stiffened and looked into his father’s eyes.
“If you let this woman go, Phillip, so help me God I’ll
have no sympathy for you ever again. None!” He squeezed his son’s shoulders
until they hurt, glaring at him ferociously. The accumulated frustration of
many long years flowed into his grip.
“People say things they don’t mean. They say cruel things
when they cannot bear the pain any more. Put it aside. Do you want to be alone
your whole life? I am alone and I ache from it. But I had the joy of your
mother for the years we shared. I have you children. But you, this
indecisiveness, this, this—” he seemed to struggle to let the word out
“—cowardice!”
The Duke released his son and stood up. He pulled with
finality at his vest. “You’re a far bigger fool than I ever thought if you let
her go this easily.” With that the Duke grabbed his coat off a nail and marched
into the twilight. But before Phillip could collect his thoughts, his father
appeared again in the open doorway.
“I’ll expect a visit from you within the week to let me
know what you have found out.” Then he turned abruptly and was gone.
Chapter
63
On the outskirts of Chesterton, the fine houses looked much like
their counterparts in the city but kept their distance from each other as well
as from the road. Among these self-contained kingdoms sat the square, red-brick
residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Thoroughgood. Mr. Thoroughgood held a high
position in the town’s Methodist church and, by virtue of his confident manner
and persuasive powers of speech, was asked to preach the Sunday sermons while the
congregation waited for their new pastor to arrive from Liverpool.
The remaining days of the week Mr. Thoroughgood spent running a well-ordered
office for the largest lumber company in the state, not unlike the well-ordered
home he presided over.
Mrs. Thoroughgood
admired her husband almost to adulation, and certainly to the point of
self-deprecation. She felt deeply guilty for not having furnished the family
with more than one child, a daughter, whom she lavished all of her loving
attention upon. Indeed, Mrs. Thoroughgood could have had ten children and made
each feel like the most precious, being a woman with a nearly bottomless
reserve of affection.
Their daughter, Lavinia, despite
her father’s stern but infrequent efforts to form her into a selfless,
no-nonsense young woman of faith, showed at the age of nine no characteristics
tending in that direction. The servants had witnessed the scamp making faces at
her father behind his back and telling bald lies to her mother to escape
punishment for broken dishes and ruined clothing. The family cat, an otherwise
friendly and affectionate creature, ran at the sight of her.
It was into
this household that little Henri was carried one afternoon by Mrs. Morgan, who
handed him unceremoniously into the arms of Mrs. Thoroughgood.
“You’re to
be praised for taking this one in,” Mrs. Morgan pronounced soberly. She pointed
to a corner of the foyer and the driver set down the child’s meager luggage on
the gleaming floor. Mrs. Thoroughgood took the baby and began cooing and
rubbing his soft cheeks with her plump finger.
Mrs. Morgan
resumed, “There’s not many as would give a Christian home to such a child. He’s
a mistake, you know, and by rights ought not be here to burden the likes of you
and me.”
Mrs.
Thoroughgood looked at the dark courier in mild reproach. “Oh, no,” she
declared. “My husband says God does not make mistakes, and he made this little
angel.” She bounced Henri gently in her arm as he studied her gentle face.
“Would you like tea?” she asked Mrs. Morgan brightly. “We were just serving.”
“No, madam,
I’m a working woman with no time for tea. I must be getting back straight.
These are all his things,” she said, nodding toward the trunk. “If you don’t
have what’s needed, it’s none of my doing. He was sheltered by single ladies
before coming here, and heaven knows how they made do.
“I’m sure
we’ll get along fine,” Mrs. Thoroughgood assured her. “Thank you so much.”
Mrs. Morgan
stared at her for a moment and turned to go.
“One more
thing,” she muttered, turning back around and pulling a card from her coat
pocket. “If it don’t work out, I’m told to tell you to send word to his
lordship and someone will come fetch him.”
Mrs.
Thoroughgood took the card bearing Phillip’s name and address, examined it
briefly, and dropped it in a small urn beside the door. She assured Mrs. Morgan
that she would keep the kind precaution in mind. With that the housekeeper
left, letting in a sharp gust of cold before the door shut behind her.
A stout
manservant carried the trunk upstairs to the nursery that had been newly
decorated in blue for the little boy. Mrs. Thoroughgood and her maid stowed his
little outfits into a mahogany chest of drawers, laying one out on the changing
table for after his bath, which the lady of the house said must be their first
order of business. In the kitchen they set a shallow tub on the table before
the fire and filled it with warm water. Mrs. Thoroughgood had already put in an
extensive supply of bathing products and lotions, which she arrayed beside the
tub, and had the maid lay out a thick towel to receive the sparkling child.
Mrs. Thoroughgood carefully laid Henri down and unfastened his clothes, talking
to him all the while, as the cook and the maid admired the little boy, ready to
assist in any way. Testing the water with her wrist, Mrs. Thoroughgood lowered
the boy into the tub, then shampooed and soaped and rinsed him until no bit of
uncleanliness, however minute, could possibly remain.
It was
during this procedure that young Lavinia quietly entered the kitchen, unnoticed
by anyone, so firmly concentrated were they on the operation at hand. Leaning
against the sink, she twirled the end of a braid and listened to the excited
warbling of the three women, watching their backs against the glow of the great
fireplace. As her mother lifted the baby triumphantly out of the water, she drew
closer to observe the new curiosity.
“Oh,
Lavinia, dear, look at your new brother,” said her mother, wrapping him in the
soft, white towel while the maid rubbed his wet head industriously with
another. “Isn’t he a little doll? We are going to have so much fun with him!”
Mrs. Thoroughgood put out an arm and drew her daughter closer. Lavinia stood
beside her and eyed the newcomer.
“I wish it
was a girl. Then I could dress her up.”
The ladies
chuckled. “He has darling little suits you can dress him in, dear, just wait
until you see them,” assured Mrs. Thoroughgood. “And we can go into town
tomorrow and get him a few more, as he doesn’t have much. You can come and help
pick them out.”
Little
Henri turned his brown eyes upon the girl and lifted his brows. Lavinia took
this to mean, “Who are you? No one important. At least not any more.” She had
not wanted him to come into their home, and now she knew she was right—he was a
wretched little thing and already taking her place in everyone’s heart. She
looked up at the faces of the three happy women as they beamed at her, their
cheeks red from the warmth of the kitchen. The cook handed her a pair of tiny
knit booties to put on the baby’s curling feet. Lavinia felt the soft yarn and
ran the blue ribbons between her fingers. She tossed them one by one into the
soapy water, threw a daring look at her mother, and stalked upstairs to her
room to rearrange her piles of toys.
To be continued . . .
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