Episode 34: What Child Is This

Note to my faithful readers:  This is the second-to-last episode of our tale. Next week we will conclude our time with Agnes and her friends, and I thank you for getting to know them.  All the best, A. M. Doyle

Chapter 66

Lavinia knew that she would have to answer for her little pranks, but she did not care. It would follow the usual pattern: Father would come home and, hearing of her crime, would bring her into the parlor and give her a stern dressing-down, his lanky frame towering over her and his mouth set in a deep frown. He would sentence her to several hours of Bible reading, usually from Proverbs, and extended time in her room without visitors. By the next day her mother would have managed to commute the sentence and everything would return to normal.

            No, the punishment did not concern her. She had a bigger problem, which was the expulsion of the child with whom she had been forced to share her parents. “Heathen brat” was her new nickname for him when no one was listening. (Lavinia was not sure what heathen meant, but one day she heard women talking in the mercantile about how her parents had agreed to take one in, and the way those women said the word, she concluded it must be something bad.)

            After the bath incident, Lavinia bided her time. She even pretended to warm up to the wretch, dangling things playfully in front of him and pushing him through the house in his little wheeled seat. Mrs. Thoroughgood had begun to relax a bit as she watched them, and the cook mused optimistically that it only needed time for Lavinia to become attached to her new brother.

            Months passed, and Lavinia watched her mother grow ever fonder of the little boy. She felt herself barely noticed anymore. Now and then her mother made a feeble effort to compliment her or pull her into some silly game with the baby, but she remained convinced that it was just for show. The half-breed was completely eclipsing her in her parents’ affections.

            Spring came, then summer, and in the first chill, damp days of autumn Henri succumbed to a serious bout of cough and fever. His illness turned the house upside down with worry and frantic fussing around his bed. As days went by and the child continued to lie flushed and listless, Lavinia dared to hope that the illness would carry him away. But slowly his little body rallied, and he was once more toddling about talking his usual gibberish.

            Christmas was only days away. The greatest present Lavinia could imagine would be the absence of Henri. Still, she had not found a good way to bring it about, and her frustration, which she had learned to keep carefully concealed (a frightening ability in one so young), continued to mount. One blustery afternoon, on the day set for Henri’s weekly bath, Lavinia hung about the kitchen after school, watching and thinking. Her mother was at a meeting of the ladies’ charitable society. The cook had just set the boy in the tub of warm water by the fire and proceeded to carry out a brisk washing with arms lean and muscled from years of lifting kettles and beating stiff dough. Henri kept busy banging a spoon against the edge of the tub, making such a racket that Lavinia was about to march away when the cook, glancing over her shoulder, called to her.

            “Child, go fetch a gown for this one, will you? I thought I had everything, but . . .”

            “I don’t know where they are,” Lavinia lied over the din.

            “Of course you do. They are in the little chest just beside his bed.”

            “I hurt my ankle and Mother told me not to go up and down the stairs any more than I really must.”

            The cook cast a suspicious look on her. “Well, you stand right here and make sure he doesn’t climb out while I go get it. Don’t turn your back on him for a moment, do you hear?”

            Lavinia almost made a face but thought better of it and took the cook’s place beside the tub. Henri was now mercifully sucking on the spoon and splashing the water with his plump little hand. An idea came to her as the cook’s steps retreated down the hallway. He might slip. His face might go under. She reached into the tub and shifted the wet child backwards, supporting him on her arm. Bang went the spoon against metal. She cradled him lower still and the child’s arms went out, dropping the spoon into the murky water.

            “Down you go,” she cooed.

            Frightened, the child stared up at her and began to cry. Lavinia pulled him upright and pressed the spoon back into his hand, urging him in whispers to be quiet, but she managed only to increase his distress. He let go the spoon and wailed louder, looking all around through his tears as though for a savior. Grabbing the wet washcloth, she covered his mouth to muffle the crying, while breathing dire threats into his little ear.

            “Lavinia!” It was her mother’s voice, but twisted into a shriek as the girl had never heard. Lavinia froze and looked up to see her mother’s face contorted in horror. Mrs. Thoroughgood stood over her, still in her hat and coat. She pushed her daughter aside and grabbed the boy out of the water. Clutching him against her shoulder, she threw a towel over his back as he sobbed and spluttered. She could only stare at her daughter as though at a murderous stranger.

            The cook hurried into the kitchen with the gown in one hand and stopped. “What’s happened?” she cried. She looked from mother to daughter and asked again, louder this time.

            “He slipped.” Lavinia pushed the words out as through a small crack, grudgingly, like one who knew she would not be believed. She let the wet rag fall to the floor and ran from the room with tears of anger burning her eyes.

            The cook came close to Mrs. Thoroughgood and looked at her directly. “We can’t keep him, ma’m. Not with Miss Lavinia in the house. It’s not safe. One or t’other of them has to go.”

            Her mistress raised her eyes to hers, huge and unbelieving.

            “He’s not safe even another night here unless you put his bed in my room,” warned the cook.

            Mrs. Thoroughgood nodded weakly. “Yes,” she murmured. “And I thought she was doing so well with him . . .  .” Then she took a step closer to her cook and half whispered. “You won’t say anything, will you, May? You won’t tell what happened?”

            “How could I tell? I didn’t rightly see it. But no, I won’t say anything. Still,” she said, “you’re going to have to do something one day with that girl, and you know it’s so.”

            Mrs. Thoroughgood made no reply but wandered into the foyer, where, as in a daze, she reached her hand into the small urn by the door and retrieved the card she had dropped in when the child arrived just over a year ago. Within an hour, Henri was dressed and bundled in two blankets and a hat. The cook and maid loaded his belongings into a cab at the front door. Mrs. Thoroughgood placed a long kiss on Henri’s cheek and handed him to the cook, who settled back in the coach with her arms around the child.

            “What should I tell them, ma’m?” she asked her mistress.

            Mrs. Thoroughgood, wearing only a velvet dress against the chill evening air, clutched herself. “Just tell them that we are not in a position to keep him. Make sure they know—“ her voice caught—“ that he is a wonderful boy and it is not his fault that we must give him up.”

The good woman put her handkerchief to her face, shut the cab door, and hurried inside. The cook and little Henri rode together to Fellcrest, back from where he had come, as the first stars pricked the cold, pink dusk.

Chapter 67

Of all nights in the year, none can surpass Christmas Eve for its warmth of feeling and general merriment. And so it was at the Schmidt’s home that twenty-fourth of December, with all members of the household as well as Agnes and her small staff crowded around two tables for a dinner of roast duck, oysters, baked squash, cakes, puddings, and more delights for the tongue than can be named. (After hearing how Agnes had celebrated her last Thanksgiving at Brookside with her own staff around the table—rather than invited guests—Vera adopted the practice enthusiastically as embracing the true spirit of the holiday. She set up extra seating in the adjoining parlor to accommodate everyone and reserved for her use only those servants who were indispensable to preparing and serving the meal.) Mr. Frederick Schmidt presided at the dining room table with the rosy glow of both benefactor and blissful newlywed, as Vera described her various ideas for celebrating their first anniversary (which included, to her husband’s obvious discomfort, plans for ice skating followed by high tea in their home for several dozen close friends).

            The couple’s German cook worked miracles with every course that evening, sampling each one liberally along the way to ensure its perfection. The Schmidt’s impeccable but aloof Italian butler—hired by Vera upon moving into Frederick’s house to replace her own incompetent young man—in the spirit of the season, acquiesced to Fettles’ offer to help serve, and the latter shone with this return to duty at a “real” dinner, as he described it. The two butlers poured wine and set out new courses, all to exclamations of wonder and declarations that they, the diners, could not possibly eat another forkful, which was disproved time and again through the testimony of another empty platter.

            When everyone had done all possible justice to the dinner, they adjourned to the parlor to sing carols and light the tree. Vera, Agnes, and Fettles lit the tall spruce’s forty candles with care, straightening each one to drip as little wax as possible. Outside the window, the occasional cab drove by conducting what remained of the business and bustle of the day. The bells of St. Monica’s had long ago rung nine o’clock, and everyone in Vera’s parlor who was not touching matches to candle wicks sank into chairs or leaned heavily on the piano with the sweet satisfaction of being warm and well fed. A robust fire blazed on the hearth and, along with several lamps, bathed the room in honey-colored light. As the candle lighters finished their work, a cheer went up, and the congregation admired the great tree with its wonderful ornaments and gleaming silver tinsel.

            “What shall we start with?” asked Vera, taking her place at the piano.

            “’Hark the Harold’!” declared Fettles, handing around sheets of Christmas lyrics. “Or,” he said, slightly embarrassed, “whatever you wish.”

            All those present endorsed the choice, Vera found the page in her book of music, and the room rang with the carol’s bright chords. Such was the gusto of the singers that no one noticed that another voice had joined theirs during the second verse. It was not until they concluded the final refrain of Glory to the newborn King that Fettles, looking around in satisfaction, uttered a simple “Oh!” Everyone followed his wide-eyed gaze to a figure standing just inside the parlor doorway, still wearing his coat and holding his hat. The man’s sandy hair gleamed dully in the light of the lamp just beside him, as he turned his hat in his hands and smiled uncertainly. 

            Agnes gasped. Frederick came forward to give Phillip a genial handshake, and Vera got out from behind the piano to hold Agnes’s cold hand. “It’s alright,” she murmured to her niece, “be a good girl and don’t faint for us.” Mr. Schmidt introduced Phillip to the household while Fettles took his coat and hat. The cook served him a glass of warm punch and fetched a plate of food from the kitchen, and Vera returned to the piano. The festivities resumed with renditions of several more Christmas favorites while Phillip took a seat beside Agnes and shared her sheet music. She did not look at him—a direct gaze might reveal that he was not really there at all. She sang in a whisper, listening to his voice and reeling inside from a hundred imaginings as to why he had come.

            As midnight approached, Fettles and the young Italian butler donned their hats and coats, shook hands all around, and headed up the street to Mass, having discovered that they both belonged to the same ancient and venerable Christian institution. Mr. Schmidt politely decided it was time for him to retire, bowed to his wife with a wink, and headed for his room. The rest of the party blew out the Christmas candles, taking care not to spatter wax onto the precious glass ornaments. The partiers then broke up to put away the last of the refreshments or retire to their rooms, leaving Agnes, Phillip, and Vera alone. Vera trimmed the lamps, sinking the room into a collection of large shadows cast by the still-vigorous fire. Phillip crouched to turn a log, and Agnes fiddled with the tree trimmings.

            After adjusting the last lamp, Vera turned and smiled at her niece. “Lord Phillip wrote to me that he had some news to share with you. He offered to come after Christmas, but I said why wait? I certainly didn’t want to spend the holiday wondering what it might be! But I’ll leave you two to discuss it.” Vera glided from the room and slid the pocket doors closed behind her.

            Agnes looked at Phillip, who stood half-lit by the orange light of the fire.

            “Will you sit down?” he asked, indicating the deep red sofa beside the fireplace. Agnes came over and sat, absently gathering her skirt into her hands. Having once dared to look at him directly, she now could not take her eyes off him. Phillip sat beside her and drew Rupa’s letter from his breast pocket. “You read French, don’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’d very much like you to read this.”

            Agnes tilted the pages toward the firelight to examine the handwriting. “Aloud?”

            “No, please, I have been over it many times.”

            Agnes drew the letter closer and read silently. Halfway through she took his hand and squeezed it and kept it until she had finished.

            At last she lowered the letter and looked at him earnestly. “He’s not yours, just as you said.”

            “No.”

            “That poor girl.”

            They stared at each other. “My father said that if I didn’t come after you he’d never speak to me again—or words to that effect.”

            “So you’re here because he told you to come—yet judging by the date on the letter, it has taken you more than a year.”

            “Well, there’s a reason for that. Two reasons, really. I’m sure you remember the accusations you sent me off with the last time we talked.”

            Agnes worked to hold his gaze. “I remember.”

            “That I was merely amusing myself with your company, toying with your affections. Never seriously intending anything like the marriage we talked about.”

            His words cut into her. Agnes dropped her gaze toward the shimmering green folds of her skirt. 

            “You were a pleasant game to pass the time with,” Phillip continued. He broke off and looked to the blazing hearth. Rising, he slid his hands into his pockets and took a turn around the room.

            “A man does not push such words easily aside. I tried to—when this letter arrived I rode the same day to show it to you. Like a madman I rushed to Brookside only to find the house empty. I can’t describe how that felt—to find you gone and not even know where. Father said I should pursue you. Said some rather harsh things about me that day, in fact.

            “Well, I can’t quite say why I didn’t do what he said. Somehow I just could not work up the will to risk it, I guess. Which probably makes Father right about my being cowardly.”

             “Your father called you cowardly?”

            “I can’t blame him. I imagine you felt the same. Father and I are so different. And look what I have put the poor man through. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. We come to the second reason why I am here only now.” Phillip came around to face Agnes. “My bargaining position has unexpectedly improved.”

            Agnes looked up at him, puzzled.

            “I’ll explain,” replied Phillip. “But I must know if you would still consider going in with me on that idea we talked about last summer.”

            “Which one? The one we agreed to keep secret so you could quietly back out?”

            Phillip’s face darkened.

            Agnes grabbed his hand impulsively. “I take that back, I’m sorry. I have told myself for a long time that you never were serious. I had to.”

            “Why?”

            “Because it was too much otherwise.” Agnes’s face contracted as she searched his eyes. “To think that what we felt was real and might have worked, that we might have married, was too awful. Better to believe that it was only an illusion all along.”

            At this Phillip’s defenses fell, and Agnes saw the man she remembered. He sank onto his knees before her where she sat and pulled from his coat pocket a tiny velvet box. “What a fool I have been, Agnes! I should have shouted our news in the streets. I should have given you something like this.” He set the box in her lap and clasped both her hands. “I have the farm, Agnes. It’s not what you are used to, but I’m improving the house and by summer it will be very sufficient. I have ducks, cows, and a couple of good horses—I think I might actually be able to make a go of this.”

            He searched her face. Agnes sat motionless, her eyes wide. “Is that the improvement in your position?”

            “No, no. You see, I understand if I am not sufficiently appealing on my own. But if you should say yes, dear Agnes, if you are still agreeable . . .”

            Phillip let go of her hands and stepped lightly to the doors, sliding them open just enough to pass through. Agnes heard him walk upstairs and wondered if he had left her alone to work out the riddle he’d just given her. She rubbed her fingers over the soft surface of the box, then timidly opened it. Inside gleamed a dainty ring of rosy gold with a circle of tiny diamonds surrounding one lustrous pearl. She gently pulled out the ring to examine it, turning it toward the firelight, and judged it the most beautiful ring ever made. Unable to resist, she slipped it carefully onto her finger. The fit was exact. Hurriedly, she pulled it off and set it back in the box. She was so overcome with feelings that her mind felt suspended, unable to make sense of what she had just learned or the army of possibilities overrunning her. One thought stood out, however, from the wild throng: He loves me still.

            Agnes wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief. She heard Phillip’s footsteps returning, but could tell he was not alone. She looked up to see him slip back into the room and then step to one side. Behind him came Vera leading a small boy whose huge eyes shone in the firelight as he approached on his sturdy little legs. Agnes rose with her handkerchief to her mouth, then slowly knelt down to look at the lad. The boy’s wondering gaze moved from the fire to Agnes, and their eyes met. She made no sound as she took his little hand in both of hers. Then she began to laugh in short, broken pieces as tears ran freely down her face. Vera let go of Henri’s hand and Agnes gathered him into her arms. She held him there, stroking his soft hair, and shaking in quiet sobs, as Vera withdrew from the room. From outside in the darkness, they heard the clangorous bells of St. Monica’s announcing Christmas Day to the sleepy city.

            It was into this scene that the two butlers returned, their noses reddened with cold and their faces lit with a convivial cheer that only the yuletide season can bestow upon two such dissimilar people. Vera quietly explained what was happening, and the two men let their mouths drop slightly open in the mystified way that bachelors do when the high emotion of matrimony is in the air. They crept on tiptoe to the kitchen where they knew hot cocoa and gingerbread awaited them. Along the way they held their breath like people afraid of catching some life-changing contagion.

To be continued . . .