Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (102 page)

“No, not him. Lucas, one of those who fields for him, stopped over on the way to the farm.”

She sat at the table, eating her wheatcakes and studying the recipe. It was for
Coq au Vin
, clipped from an item by Craig Claiborne, from an old issue of the
New York Times.

So he isn’t just a farmer
, she thought, for some reason pleased.
He must have the paper sent to him from the city.
She read the recipe aloud to Pompey.

Take one pullet, three to four pounds, salt, dry well, flour and brown on all sides. Season, add herbs
(
tarragon, thyme, paprika and bay leaves
)
. Add one and a half cups of chicken broth and red wine
(
claret or burgundy
)
. Cook for thirty minutes, add small white onions and cooked fresh mushrooms
(
about half a pound
)
. Garnish with parsley.

“You mean to say he sent the pullets and this recipe too?” she asked.

“Yes, honey, and some beefsteak tomatoes and nice brown eggs. We got a larder-full.”

“Wasn’t that nice of him.”

He grinned at her. “Don’t think he did it on account of me,” he said. “Looks like he got a weak spot for someone else. Not mentioning no names.”

She grinned back. “Simply platonic,” she said, and when she finished her breakfast went right to the phone. “Hello,” the pleasant voice said.

“Hello, Santa Claus.”

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, and his voice deepened.

“Thanks for the largesse,” she said. “We’ll dine royally tonight.”

“Nothing at all. I sent it over because I had originally planned for you to be here for dinner this evening, only my cow’s dropping fast. What do you think about all this animal husbandry?”

“I think it’s terrific. I hope you’ll send me a birth announcement. What’s the baby’s name going to be?”

“I was thinking of Margo … that is, if it’s a girl.”

“Feel free, I’d be honored. I’ll be her godmother. I don’t suppose we could have her christened in church, could we?”

“I’ll call up the minister right away.”

“I’ll have to wear something very special for the occasion.”

He laughed. “Okay, honey, enjoy your dinner.”

When she hung up she went back to the kitchen. “I just called Douglas to say thank you.”

“Did you, now?”

“Because it was so nice of him.”

“Things happen fast around here.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “No better man ever made than that Douglas. John too, both of them. You think about it twice. Your aunt always said, ‘That child belongs up here, only she don’t know it yet.’ Now what you going to do today?”

“Enjoy being here. I’ll take some pictures; I’m a photographer.”

“That’s my girl.”

Ed Corliss was in the living room when she went down the hall, quietly working away, his face serious and intent. She hadn’t heard him come in; he had keys, of course. She said, “Good morning, Ed,” and he looked up quickly.

“Oh, good morning, it’s a fine day, isn’t it?”

“Too nice to be indoors,” she said, and going up to her room, selected two cameras — one long lens, one for close shots — then went down again and started her work. The back of the house, in particular, interested her. It was diametrically in opposition to the front, which was in the traditional Georgian style, with its dormer windows, gambrel roof and Mount Vernon veranda. It was what one saw from the road: just that cold, perfect facade, in the best Colonial manner, and the beautiful doorway with its fanlight.

But from the back the house had a different aspect. For one thing, there was the “stoop,” a long, rustic veranda running the width of the house — quite unusual in a mansion of this type — and above it, off the second-floor bedrooms, an iron balcony, like that of a residence in Louisiana, with curlicues and gingerbread, and a riot of color from the plants in heavy iron urns that studded its length.

It was, of course, an afterthought, and might have detracted from the famous house. Yet many architectural buffs had praised the later adjuncts. For example, one renowned critic had written: “The trimming at the back of the Brand House may seem to some a bastardization, but to these eyes it only serves to set this manor over and above others of the period. To my mind, these florid embellishments have charm and livability, and do nothing to despoil the chaste front of the historied house. Rather, they seem a delightful surprise and astonishment. To sit just outside one of the upper bedrooms, on that long, wide balcony, is a delight. Furthermore, the southern-plantation stoop, so out of place in an upstate New York manor house, is pure whimsy, and takes nothing away from the house’s value …”

The hours sped by as Margo, taking snapshots, lay now on her stomach, then on her back. It was a happy, rewarding morning, and when at noon Pompey came out and called, “Lunch!” she could scarcely believe the time.

It was lamb chops and tomato slices and iced tea, with cottage pudding for dessert. Ed Corliss lunched with them, and the three of them spent a pleasant hour in the sun-filled dining room. Where had he studied? Margo asked; he said Williams College, then had come home and taken a job with Mr. Bach. Was he married? No.

“Going steady, Ed?”

“More or less,” he told her, but didn’t elaborate.

He was a very
quiet
young man, no fun at all, but he did give her a wonderful present. “Letters,” he said, when they left the dining room. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy reading them. The ink is very faded, but you can make out the gist of them. They’re from the sea captain, Benjamin Brand, to his wife Lavinia.”

“Where did you find them?”

“In the desk in the Long Room,” he said, meaning the living room and using the name indigenous to its time. “I’m sure they’re of great historic value, not in monetary terms, you understand, but for future generations.”

She thanked Ed and took them up to her room, where she settled down to read them, stroking the wrinkled, parchment-thin paper, yellowed with time. And as Ed said, the ink was so faded in spots that some words were almost illegible. Love letters didn’t differ much from century to century, Margo thought … the same phrases, the same sentiments, the same aching longing transmitted from those parted by time and circumstance. A young wife had once waited eagerly for these missives and, upon receiving them, had curled up, perhaps in front of a roaring fire, and with beating heart read them, read them again, and yet again.

Then laid them aside, to be picked up next day and the next, and so many times that the paper had gone limp, had shriveled, and was now little more than dust.
And that woman and that man begat other women and other men who begat me
, she thought. And now here she was, catching yet another glimpse of her forebears, those who came ahead of her and just as surely as God made little green apples had brought her into being.

The first letter was dated July 29, 1847.

The second date was September, 1847.

All the letters were signed “Your dear Benjamin.”

And then, like another windfall, the rather crude messages from the crew. Varying little, all substantially the same. Addressed to “Dear Madam,” with brief felicitations and hopes for a Happy New Year to the captain’s Wife and Family. The names were the names of the period: Noah, Ephraim, Jonathan, Justin, Ezekiel, Amos, Abraham, Moses, Ishmael, Luke. Ten of them, with their warming little messages, ten fine men who had sailed the seas before the age of steam saw the last of the Yankee Clippers.

How fantastic, how exciting
, Margo thought, and for a wild moment she
was
Lavinia Brand, tearing open the letters, crying, laughing, showing them to her children, her dear children.

Years ago,
years
ago … a century and a quarter ago, and yet, worn though the letters were, faded though their ink might be, and the senders dead for lo, these many years, the people who had lived those lives and those years seemed as alive, if not more alive, than what was around her.
I
love the past
, she thought passionately, and went down to thank Ed Corliss for the find.

“They are lovely letters,” she said. “Thank you, oh, so much, Ed. I can’t tell you.”

“They belong to you,” he said. “They’re not real property.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, not like the house, or the furnishings, or the paintings, you understand.”

“But mustn’t I have them registered?”

“If you like, but it doesn’t matter. The letters are oddments, curiosities, if you like. Like the old family Bible, which happens, at the moment, to be in Mr. Bach’s keeping. If I should come across, for example, a letter from George Washington or Robert E. Lee, or something of like significance to the country of which you are a citizen, then that finding would be of general significance and would, per se, have to be registered and there would be a consultation with the Smithsonian Institute in Washington.”

“But these don’t fall into that category?”

“No, they’re just old family letters and I’m delighted they gave you pleasure.”

“Pleasure? Why, they moved me to tears,” she said. “And again, Ed, thanks very, very much.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said, rather awkwardly.

She went outdoors, lifting her face to the sky, the sky that Benjamin Brand had gazed on, and all the others who came after. In foreign ports that man of the sea had longed for the landscape of home, had attended balls and been, according to his own account, a “popular” Captain.

Then she spotted Norma’s car. Norma often came over on her lunch hour to do the flowers. Surely she’d have time for coffee and a chat. She made her way round to the back. “Oh, there you are,” she started to say, and then realized that Norma wasn’t alone.

She had her arms filled with blooms. Her head was slightly bent as she looked down at someone on the grass. Her neck was long and slender, her posture infinitely graceful. She looked like the Primavera, the long, luxuriant hair falling over her shoulders, her high, perfect cheekbones with the rich, tanned skin stretched tight, like satin.
That’s what I call a picture
, Margo thought, and as the girl turned at her call, Margo had a quick glimpse of dark, intent eyes, as if … as if …

As if she were under a spell. She stood there, for another moment, stock still, her eyes vague and distracted, and with that strange, odd look.

“It’s only me,” Margo said.

One more strange moment and then Norma responded. “What are you doing home on a beautiful day like this?”

“I’ve been taking pictures,” Margo answered, and then someone stood up, rising from the grass.
I
don’t know you
, Margo thought.
Who are you?

It wasn’t just a man. It was a superman, with great, ox-like shoulders, bare to the waist, a chest like a bull, covered with strong, dark hair, and the muscles of his arms rippled as he lifted his hand in a kind of salute. He stood well over six feet four, had a dark, handsome face, reckless eyes, and a bravado of manner that was faintly unpleasant.

“So this is little Margo,” he said.

“You remember Ben,” Norma said. “Ben Blough? The
enfant terrible
, the one who used to steal our clothes when we went swimming?”

It came back now. A big, burly boy with tight black curls, a bully, yet with an indefinable allure.

“Margo, Margo, how’s your cargo?” It had always sounded nasty, though she was sure he hadn’t meant anything in particular by it. “Cargo” was the first word that came to his mind to rhyme with her name.

“Hello, Ben,” she said. “Of course I remember you. You were rather tormenting.”

“Was I?”

His eyes on her, insolent. “Yes,” she said. “You were.”

“I’ve changed,” he told her. “I’m a good boy now.”

“That’s nice,” she said mildly, and Norma said quickly, “I don’t believe him either.” After which she explained that Ben had done a good deal of the gardening about the place for several years.