A Prologue To Love (30 page)

She went downstairs to find Beth, still crying quietly and bonneted and shawled, pulling on black cotton gloves. Caroline dropped the note on the kitchen table. She was very uncomfortable, and because she was uncomfortable she was vexed. She fished in her black serge pocket for her purse, unsnapped it, and put a one-dollar bill on the note. She said surlily, “The market sells flowers. This dollar will buy a lot of them.”

Beth looked at the note and the money, still weeping. Her impulse was to embrace Caroline and again attempt to reach her. But though Beth was a simple woman she realized it was all too late. There was only the hope that Tom could do that. Beth, without speaking, left the old, leaning house, and Caroline was alone.

She walked through the hideous rooms, hearing the squeaking of her footsteps. She went outside and looked at the rise of the ground far beyond the house, now overgrown with tall sea grass and brambles soughing in a lonely wind. She was overpoweringly restless. She walked to the shingle and looked far out at the incandescent sea and the bulk of Marblehead lifting its grassy top and stone and little white houses to the sun. A large ship pushed along the horizon, and Caroline thought of her father and was again bereft. Tell me what to do, she said to his ghost.

Tom’s house was filled with sad-faced villagers, for he and his father were loved and respected. Every small hot room was crowded; his father’s coffin, plain pine covered with a sleazy black silk cloth, lay in the parlor, and Thomas Sheldon slept in it peacefully, flowers surrounding him. The scent of them choked the air. When Beth arrived Tom showed her his father in silence. His face was haggard and lined, but he smiled at her a little, then led her outside.

She gave Tom Caroline’s note. She was very surprised when he did not comment on it or Caroline’s absence. He stood beside Beth in the hot sun on the little porch and he reread Caroline’s note. It did not sound cold and stiff to him, nor selfish. He saw that the sharp writing had wavered a little here and there. He read the impulsive exclamation under her name.

“She wouldn’t come,” said Beth, sighing. “She’s very strange, Tom. I suppose you should know that.”

“Would you ask a woman with broken legs to walk?” said Tom. “Would you ask a blind person to see? Would you ask a deaf girl to hear?”

He put his hand on Beth’s fat shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Beth. It’s all right, really it is. Are you coming for the funeral tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, dear Tom.”

“But Carrie will be going to New York alone, then. Isn’t that dangerous for a young woman?”

“Nothing is dangerous for Carrie,” said Beth with some bitterness. “She can handle anything.”

“I don’t know; maybe I don’t agree with that,” said Tom. He looked beyond the village to the hill where the poor cemetery stood.

Beth cried again. “Oh, Tom, I don’t know! I don’t know what happened, but all at once I kind of got a glimpse of the real Carrie, and it was awful. I mean everything about Carrie was terrible. Why couldn’t that hateful man have died when she was a little girl? It would have been better for her!

Caroline left the next morning for New York on the seven-thirty milk train. It would be a long and gritty ride, full of discomfort. She settled herself on the lumpy black leatherette seat and put the basket lunch Beth had packed for her beside her. It was covered with a white napkin. The train had lurched along only a few miles when the folds of the napkin were befouled by the black soot belching through the open window. The heat wafted along the crowded coach, and the passengers coughed when clouds of smoke and steam rolled in.

Caroline sat stolidly in her black mourning dress, with the black shawl Beth had knitted for her over her shoulders. A two-dollar black bonnet, severe and plain and draped with a wisp of mourning veil, perched on top of her coronet of braids. She opened a ledger on her lap, removed her black gloves, and studied the figures of Broome and Company to refresh her memory. Her dark face misted with sweat, and grit clung to the area between her large nose and her heavy mouth. Her short neck became damp; her broad shoulders dampened under her clothing. Her expression became brooding and thoughtful and intent. She even forgot Tom in her concentration. Her feet, in thick boots buttoned and severe, rested on her purse, protecting it.

Caroline was thinking of old, depraved Maggie Broome. Her fear of Maggie had long passed. Maggie needed her as she had needed John Ames. Caroline smiled grimly. She possessed fifty-one percent of the Broome stock. There would be no mocking airs and graces from old Maggie this time, no jeerings, no raucous laughter, no winks and grins, taunts and elbow-nudgings. The letter Caroline had received from her a short time ago had been flighty and vainglorious, but under the scrawl and under the words Caroline had detected uncertainty and even some anxiety. I can ruin her, thought Caroline. I can sell out the stock; it’s low now; I can throw it on the market. If the stock were thrown on the market, the other shares would immediately fall and Maggie’s income would be greatly decreased. Caroline let herself feel the pleasure, then shook her head. It would not be practical. Her father had taught her that a sensible man, no matter how goaded, never took petty revenge if it meant a loss for himself. When talking to Tom, Caroline had cried that she wanted nothing more to do with the Maggie Broomes, that she was withdrawing from her kind. But Caroline did not think of this now. There was too much money involved. There were future heirs to be considered, just as her father had considered his own daughter.

Caroline thought of her cousin Timothy, junior law partner of Tandy, Harkness and Swift. In the past Caroline had shrunk from the thought of Timothy, but now she gave him all her attention. He was her age. Cynthia did not like her son, and her son did not like his mother. Caroline had not been particularly interested before. Now, suddenly, she was deeply interested. She thought of Cynthia, the polished, the idle, the parasitic, the frivolous woman who had unaccountably seduced John Ames. Extravagant, wicked woman, thought Caroline, feeling again a savage clench in her heart.

Nothing, thought Caroline, would so disconcert Cynthia Winslow as some good fortune coming to her son. Never for a moment did Caroline understand that a mother might not like her children but that she could still love them. Cynthia’s frank aversion, openly and laughingly expressed many times, had convinced the young Caroline that Cynthia wished no good for her son and that she detested him.

She was hot, dirty, and tired when she arrived in New York. She was driven in a hack to the Gentlewoman’s Pension in the lower Thirties where she always stayed when alone. The French conceit did not extend beyond the name, for the pension was owned by two middle-aged spinsters, sisters, of indubitably Anglo-Saxon origin, who spoke no French at all. They had bought four elderly three-story brownstone houses, had connected them, had established a deplorably tasteless but clean dining room for their guests, and had bullied a staff of young girls and middle-aged women into keeping their establishment immaculate. They had a permanent clientele of old ladies and spinsters like themselves and accommodated transients like Caroline, who was deeply reverenced. She expressed the ‘tone’ of the place; on this humid day it smelled of hot wool carpets, laundry soap, polish, and gas. There was always a large front room available for her, looking out on the narrow, quiet street and showing a glimpse of a religious seminary across the road enmeshed in tall old trees. Few carriages or other vehicles disturbed the heated quiet, the silence of brick and stone.

Caroline bathed from the large china bowl and dried her hands on plain linen towels. One of the spinsters brought her tea and hot muffins and strawberry jam, inquired about her health, murmured her sympathy. Caroline listlessly drank a little tea and ate a muffin, washed her hands again, picked up her ledger and purse, and went out to the hack, which had returned for her. She was driven to Tandy, Harkness and Swift on hectic Broadway, but she did not look at the brawling city seething under its burning blue roof. She had the power of absolute concentration.

Tandy, Harkness and Swift occupied two genteel floors in a somewhat new building with an elevator. They were lawyers of substance, power, rectitude, and considerable repute and managed a number of excellent estates in conjunction with their regular legal work, which was never concerned with anything the least reprehensible. Everything was conducted soberly and with distinction; no raised voices had ever been heard in their offices, for they did not accept clients of excitable disposition or tangled affairs. In a city which teemed with colorful dubiousness, they were a cool aridity of elegance and probity. Cousins, the sons of three sisters (two had been born in Boston), they had, of course, been educated in genteel Harvard. Their fees were exceedingly substantial.

As relatives, they had a strong family resemblance, all being small and slight and impeccably groomed in long black coats, striped trousers, and spats, even in hot weather. After all, they had a standard to maintain. They all had deceivingly large limpid eyes of a clear brown, which concealed their intelligence and astuteness, and smooth brown hair. All were clean-shaven; all wore white cravats with black pearl stickpins; they had small white hands and were very precise. They had accepted John Ames as a client on the recommendation of other valued clients, though they had on many occasions disapproved of him. He was not a gentleman; he was not really a Bostonian. But, as Bostonians, they had the customary reverence for large fortunes, and as John had always behaved in a gentlemanly fashion and had never become heated or emotional and had always listened to their advice, they had given him a measure of their dignified approval.

Each occupied a large quiet room with a separate waiting room and a tiny office containing two clerks. Timothy Winslow worked in a little office which he shared with another junior and a clerk. There was also a conference room, the floor covered with an Aubusson carpet, several palms in tubs, heavy mahogany chairs, and a cabinet in which waited bottles of excellent sherry and crystal glasses. The walls were paneled with mahogany, and there were draperies of blue velvet at the two long thin windows. A funeral quiet hung in the room even when it was occupied, for grave affairs concerning finance and estates were discussed here. The firm was co-executor of John Ames’ estate, with Caroline. They approved of Caroline; after all, her mother had been an Esmond and she was a young lady of no flamboyance and had a proper respect for money, a dignity of her own, and was a Bostonian who possessed all the virtues of Bostonians.

She was led with real affection, concern, and solicitude into the conference room. Her nose was immediately assaulted by an expensive but rank scent, for in that place of austere virtue and unsullied affairs sat old Maggie Broome — Mrs. Norman Benchley Broome — as haggard, as soiled, as bejeweled, as depraved and overdressed as always. She was like a gaudy and lascivious parrot with a raucous voice in that paneled and subdued quiet. Five years had not changed her. She was still erect and bony, mottled of dry skin, still heavily painted, still yellowish, still raddled, disrespectful, lewd, and dyed. Worse, she was dressed in a violently pink silk suit and wore pink slippers with gemmed buckles, and her shirtwaist, though obviously expensive and flowing with handmade laces, was dirty. She looked at Caroline with her varnished raisins of eyes, noted her dress and general appearance, and her mouth twisted and the red grease upon it wrinkled. But she shouted, “Dear, dear Caroline! God! I haven’t seen you since poor old Johnny’s funeral! With all the nabobs there with their tall hats! God, child, you look healthy!” Her bangles rattled.

Messrs. Tandy, Harkness and Swift did not handle the Broome affairs, for which they were thankful. They wore sober expressions; they could not express any distaste for Maggie, for as Bostonians it would have been inconceivable for them to reveal aversion in the face of money. After all, old Norman had been of a fine family even if he had married this harridan. They were quite pleased that Caroline’s impassive face showed no pleasure and that she bowed in cold silence and seated herself stiffly and looked only at the gentlemen. The effect was somewhat spoiled by Maggie’s hoarse chuckle and the swish of her pink silk skirt as she crossed her legs.

“I should like my cousin, Timothy Winslow, to be present today,” Caroline said to Mr. Tandy.

“Who?” demanded Maggie, cocking her head, which was roofed by a large Milan straw hat burdened with blue and pink silk roses. Caroline ignored her and continued to regard Mr. Tandy with massive expectation.

“Oh!” said Maggie. “Winslow. Son of Johnny’s fancy lady, eh?”

The gentlemen’s mouths opened. Caroline continued to look at Mr. Tandy.

“Pretty gal, for her age,” continued the malicious old woman, grinning. “Saw her a couple of times in Delmonico’s with Johnny. Style. Flair. Excellent taste. Drank champagne like it was water and ate sherry lobster. All the men couldn’t stop looking at her. She wasted her time on Johnny, and I say that even if I did love him.”

She had been enraged at Caroline’s ignoring of her and at the minx’s glacial attitude. Now she was creating a sensation, and she basked in it. The gentlemen were clearing their throats and looking at the backs of their hands with distressed expressions.

“Your aunt, eh?” said Maggie. “Oh, he never told me she was his doxy. Never a word out of him, no ma’am. She was always, when I saw her, ‘my wife’s sister, Mrs. Winslow, Maggie, in New York concerning her affairs’. But there was a look on his face. Mad for her, and she for him. Charming gal. Looked at me and we laughed together; no hypocrite, she. Pretty as a Gainsborough picture.”

It was inconceivable to Caroline that her father ever patronized Delmonico’s. She had always thought of him as living as austerely in New York as he did in Lyndon or Lyme, and as obscurely. After all, New York was not Europe, and he did not need to impress Americans. Her first fierce thought was that Maggie was lying. But Maggie was chuckling and nodding with delight, and Caroline suddenly believed her. “And he dressed like a dandy, too,” said Maggie with admiration.

Caroline looked down at her gloved hands. She felt sick and betrayed.

Mr. Tandy pulled a bell rope and murmured to the answering clerk that Mr. Winslow’s presence was requested. Then he sat down and looked helplessly at his cousins, and the twitching of their eyes answered his distress. Maggie swung her big pink foot and regarded Caroline with enjoyment.

“No secret he left his lady’s adopted kid nearly a million dollars,” she said. “And no secret in New York about what the government did to his ships and clippers yesterday. Everybody’s talking about it. Kind of a jolt to you, wasn’t it, Caroline?”

Caroline was startled. For the first time she looked at the old woman with bitter hazel eyes. “What are you talking about?” she demanded rudely.

Mr. Harkness cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I sent you a telegram last night. Didn’t you get it?”

“No,” said Caroline. She was frightened. “Please tell me.”

But before he could answer, Maggie laughed resoundingly, and she showed all her yellow fangs. “The boys in Washington just confiscated everything, that’s all! All the ships and schooners and sloops and clippers, Just like that!” And she snapped her fingers with a crack. “Seems like Johnny was up to nothing good; God, girl, you must have known that! And then he died and the bribes weren’t handy any more, and they got a fit of virtue in Washington and came to life all at once and they grabbed everything. Opium and other contraband, they said, as if they hadn’t known it for years and years all the time! But, no bribes, no protection. No Johnny, no campaign funds; no Johnny, no funds for the Department of Commerce and the customs boys and the Cabinet officers. Simple as that. Now they’ll all share in the loot when the government sells Johnny’s fleet, and everybody will be happy and put an extra dollar in the collection plates on Sundays and buy themselves handsomer doxies. The boys in Washington never sleep.”

“You have no proof — er — of all that, Mrs. Broome,” said Mr. Swift.

She screamed with mirth. “No proof! Good God, sir, you don’t need proof. Everybody knew all about it.”

“When everybody knows all about anything, you can be sure it isn’t true, madam,” said Mr. Harkness.

Maggie uttered an obscenity. Caroline shrank. “Tell me, please,” she pleaded. “Is it true that all Papa’s ships have been seized by the government?”

“I’m afraid so, Caroline.”

“But it doesn’t belong to them!” Caroline exclaimed, turning a dark red with fury. “It belongs to me! They’ll have to pay me for it!”

“Ho!” laughed Maggie. “You’ll be lucky, gal, if they don’t take away half your fortune in fines out of Johnny’s estate! There’s one thing about the Washington boys: they’ve got big teeth and big bellies, and when they take, they take everything. Never any bottom to their bellies.”

Caroline was terrified.

“I don’t think it will be as bad as all that,” said Mr. Swift. “You know, Caroline, we did not manage that part of your father’s affairs. That was his own. But it is true that the government has seized the fleet and that they will sell it. We hope — we have reason to hope — that they will be satisfied with the proceeds and not demand any fines from you. In fact,” he said compassionately, “I can almost assure you that they will consider the confiscation sufficient.”

Maggie narrowed her gleaming eyes at him. “Um,” she said. “Seems like I remember that three congressmen owe you a lot, sir. Yes, it seems to me. Good luck.”

“My property!” cried Caroline. “It is my property!”

“Not any more, dearie,” chuckled Maggie, shaking her head so that all the silk roses danced.

“The Constitution guarantees the right of property!” said Caroline.

“Not when the Washington boys want it,” said Maggie. “There ain’t no Constitution when Washington wants something and its paws are sticky. Constitution, hell!”

“Please, Mrs. Broome,” said Mr. Tandy. “I think Miss Ames has had a severe shock. Caroline, would you like some sherry?”

“No,” she said. “If this is all so,” she stammered, “then America is no better than any other country.”

“Much worse,” Maggie assured her. “Really foul, dearie. Always was. You can buy anybody here; old Norman used to say so, and by God he ought to know! Your money or your life: that’s the government, if you’ve got any real cash behind you. You got to buy your safety, and buy it regular.”

Caroline thought suddenly of Tom Sheldon and Beth. She was distracted. “I don’t believe it!” she cried. “Not everybody’s filthy and a thief and a liar!”

“Yes, not everybody’s like poor old Johnny and the government,” said Maggie, vastly enjoying herself. “You got to be poor here to be let alone. Once you got enough to grease hands, they’re pounding at your door. Think I don’t grease palms, myself? And all the Vanderbilts and the Belmonts and the Astors too? Sure they do! They couldn’t operate if they didn’t. How do you suppose they get laws passed to protect ‘em? Answer me that.”

Timothy Winslow had entered silently a few minutes ago and had closed the door behind him. Maggie suddenly became aware of him. “Hah,” she shouted. “Who’s the silver boy, eh?”

“Allow me,” murmured the anguished Mr. Tandy, conscious of the shocked and frozen girl in her chair. “Mrs. Broome, this is our junior partner, Mr. Winslow.”

“Well, now, there’s a handsome one for you,” said Maggie with admiration. She held out her hand and Timothy shook it, and she openly inspected his slender height, his ascetic face, his eyes and hair. She ogled at him.

Caroline, overcome with her thoughts, did not look at her cousin. Mr. Tandy indicated a chair at a little distance, and Timothy sat down. He too was enjoying himself. The Gargoyle was definitely in a whirl, he was pleased to see. He wondered why she had wanted him here. He could see her pale and sweating face, her stricken eyes, her dry lips; he could see her gloved hands trembling. Maggie continued to study him with pleased fascination. Fine face there; a little cold, but interesting. She knew these cold and quiet men; underneath, they had twice the strength of the noisy boys.