Love Lies Bleeding (9 page)

“Good evening, Mr. LaBarr.” Libbie held out her hand for an offering.

Maude nodded at him and smiled, her eyes and cheeks burning.

Stephen took Libbie’s hand and kissed it, doing the same with Maude, albeit with less enthusiasm. Turning to their father, he stated, “Mr. Morgan, I am always amazed at how beautiful your daughters are.”

“They are our pride and joy,” her father said, beaming.

“I trust your journey was pleasant?” Libbie asked.

“Long but enjoyable,” he said, chuckling.

“I’ve made that trip,” DeWitt agreed, lighting his pipe. “Arduous, isn’t it? This is a perfect time for traveling, though. Not too hot, not too cold. And the farmers are busy in the fields, so there are far fewer lower-class travelers. And far less smell of perspiration, too. That’s always a plus.”

Juliana brought out the first course, a spring pea soup with mint, served in the elaborate china soup tureen that had belonged to Harriett’s English great-grandmother.

“How are your studies coming along, Stephen?” Harriett asked, feigning interest in a topic she knew nothing about. She sat upright in one of the Hepplewhite chairs, her back stiff, adjusting a ruffle on her skirt as she gazed over at LaBarr and then at her husband. Maude, as usual, sat unnoticed, sampling her soup.

“Splendid!” He launched into a detailed description of statutes and complicated Latin terms.

DeWitt nodded, seeing himself in the clever young man.

As Libbie sat watching, she could see her mother’s brain working, imagining the same life for Libbie that had been hers. Dinners over legal jargon where she understood nary a word, nodding, murmuring occasional “Mmm-hmms,” but knowing that she was well taken care of. That was what was important.

“How was your work today, Father?” her mother asked after wiping her lips between dainty sips of her soup.

Mr. Morgan began another harangue about plaintiffs and defendants and judges that devolved into a rant about job frustrations and the problems with the judicial system. With the exception of a few of the names he mentioned, it was almost a word-for-word repeat of a rant several days before. Or several hours before.

“And you, Mother? How was your day?” he said.

After years of observing the dinner etiquette between her parents, Libbie knew her father asked about the running of the household but remained unconcerned with the reply he received. That was women’s business. But being a courteous sort, he showed only cursory interest.

“Millie Van Rosenbeek hosted our Daughters of the American Revolution meeting today. We established some new rules for the local chapter and had an entertaining tea afterwards. I also attended a meeting of the Rebekahs this afternoon at Sally Adams’s home. Oh, and I drew up the new household budget, which I’d like you to look over, Father.”

“That sounds like a busy day, Mother.” He patted her hand in that patronizing way he always did.

“And Libbie, Maude, my dears? How did you enjoy your afternoon, with no French or mathematics classes to take up your time these days?”

“I bought a wonderful book called
The Secret Garden,
” Maude began. She leaned back as Juliana set down her portion of quail on cress accompanied by small potatoes dressed with dill.

“My day was lovely,” Libbie interrupted. “I got a new hat, and Olive and I had lunch at Birdie’s. Oh, and we went and saw a flicker at the Orpheum. It was one of those
Perils of Pauline
episodes. Very suspenseful, but you have to go back to see what happens!”

“These moving pictures are scandalous,” her father said. “They’ll lead to nothing but ruin, mark my words. They might be tame now, but they won’t remain that way. I’m convinced of it.”

“I’ve heard the Pauline flickers are very exciting,” Stephen said, “but I prefer Douglas Fairbanks. There’s a man who knows how to create excitement!”

DeWitt harrumphed, all aflutter with righteous indignation. Libbie knew he’d never understand the fascination with moving pictures. To him, anyone who wanted to see a story could attend the theater. He sampled his quail, then applied a liberal sprinkle of salt.

“We ran into Reverend Savercool at the café,” Libbie added.

“Oh, how is the reverend?” Her mother inquired. Her mother had been so much more enthusiastic about services since Reverend Savercool had taken over for the stodgy old Reverend Cornish.

“Fine. He was writing some of his new sermon over lunch. We also met some of his old flock from Newfield who happened to be visiting.”

“Pah. Newfield,” her father said. “Nothing there but ignorant farm people.”

“Oh, Papa. They were nice.”

“They’re nice; they’re just ignorant. Everything has to revolve around milking or threshing or planting.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Give me a real profession like law or merchantry or doctoring,” Stephen added, laughing. “Something respectable. Nothing that smells of cow dung.”

“Whom did you meet, Libbie?” her mother asked.

She knew her mother expected to hear the names of a local matron or two. Everyone in the Finger Lakes was a cousin to everyone else, after all.

“Thomas Estabrook and his friend Hiram Gordon,” Libbie said.

“Estabrook, did you say?” Harriett cocked her head. Libbie could see she was considering the name, but evidently it rang no bells. “And Gordon? Perhaps he’s kin with the Gordons over on Linn Street. What were they doing up here?”

“Well, Mr. Gordon was here buying some bridles and such, and his friend is living in Ithaca now. He has a job at the clockworks.”

Libbie looked over at her sister. Mousy Maude continued to eat with her head down, even though her tears threatened to dilute her soup. No one had asked about her stupid book at all.

Chapter Eleven

A
fter dinner, Libbie and Stephen sat out front enjoying the evening breeze. The slow creak of the porch swing and its gentle sway caused them to relax a bit and open up.

“Do you read much?” Libbie asked.

“Of course!
American and English Annotated Cases
,
Roberts’ Rules of Order
,
Black’s Law Dictionary
,
Prosser’s Handbook of Torts
… I’m competitive, I guess. Want to make sure I get accepted to law school.”

“No, Stephen. I meant, do you read for pleasure?”

“Oh that. Not much since I started school, but I do enjoy a good adventure now and again when time permits. I’m afraid that’s not often anymore.”

“Whom do you like?”

“Conrad’s good for a look. H. Rider Haggard is all right. I quite enjoyed that
Allan Quatermain
. Why do you ask?”

“Well, to know what your interests are. I love to read.”

“I see. What does Libbie like to read? I hope it’s none of this suffragette rubbish that’s being passed around.”

Libbie made a face that he couldn’t see. “I’m entranced with
Sons and Lovers
by Mr. Lawrence and the
Spoon River Anthology
by Edgar Lee Masters. Do you know them?”

“
Sons and Lovers
is pornography, my dear. Do your parents know you’re reading such scandalous literature?” He spit out the word “literature” as if it were an unripe fruit.

“What? It’s a book. He was experimenting with style and content. Have you read it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know of its content?”

“If the censors see fit to say that it is trash, then that’s good enough for me.”

“Aren’t you trying to become a lawyer? To uphold the law? To debate things that go against our constitution, like censorship?”

“The author is a special type of degenerate to be writing all that about a mother and son. I’m not the only one to think so.”

“But he has the right to tell the stories he likes without worrying about being censored. Who are you or I or anyone else to call it pornography?” she asked.

He snorted in derision.

“What about Edgar Lee Masters?”

“Dead people? I’ll be dealing with dead people every day if I become a criminal attorney. I have no desire to read about them in my spare time if my job does not require it.”

“What about poetry? Do you like poetry?”

“Depends on the poetry, I suppose.”

“Well, who do you like?”

“I don’t know, Libbie,” he said. “‘Roses are red, violets are blue.’ I don’t know. I don’t read poetry that much. Why is it important?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you better. That’s all.”

“I’m not trying to be cross. I’m just unused to women asking me so many questions or so much about writers. What else do you like to do?”

She thought a moment. “I like shopping, and going to the nickelodeon, and ice cream sodas, and going for strolls…holding hands…”

“Well, then, I shall hold your hand.”

He took hers into his, and the warmth was comforting. But the company left much to be desired. Libbie knew that eventually she would adjust to him. She just didn’t know what on Earth they would talk about.

Trumansburg, New York
June, 1986

“According to Mom, it wasn’t long after this that Libbie began acting strange,” Diana said. “Snapping at people, going out more often with Olive…at least at the time they thought it was with Olive. Later on, they figured out that she had probably been with that boy from Newfield. That Thomas what’s-his-name that the papers talked about,” Diana explained.

Frank took another cookie as he listened.

“And something else,” Diana said. “She became very secretive. Mom said she would walk into the room, and Libbie would put away what she was doing or grump at Mother for invading her privacy. She had never been like that before. Mom didn’t know what she had done that had set her off. But one night, when she was downtown going for a movie with a friend, she saw Libbie with that boy. And she knew something was going on.”

Chapter Twelve

Ithaca, New York
June 1916

S
everal days later, Libbie noticed a new dress in the window of Rothschild’s and had to have it. It was pink-sprigged and perfect for summer. She imagined how she would look in it at a picnic or an outing on one of the lake steamers. While in the store, she bought the dress plus a bag and a straw hat to match. The hat had a pink ribbon band and pink-tinged white rosebuds with tiny tufts of delicate tulle and silk baby’s breath accenting them. Of course, it would look divine on her. Her usual frocks were in various shades of blue, as she knew how becoming she looked in them, but once in a while, she varied her wardrobe a bit. This dress had a delicate girlish femininity that many of her blue ones did not.

As she approached the marble lobby on her way out of the department store, she decided to sample a new fragrance at the ladies toiletries counter, neglecting her usual lilac to try something different. She had to admit that the wisteria had a certain piquancy she enjoyed.

She exited the revolving doors, then stepped off the curb on State Street. That was when she saw Tom again with a friend. He noticed her right away and they crossed the street to join her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Morgan,” he said, removing his hat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Estabrook,” she countered, smiling at him and then at his friend. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“It certainly is. I was out with my friend Jimmy here. This is Mr. James Devenport from Newfield.” He gestured at Jimmy, who doffed his hat at her.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, nodding perfunctorily but without warmth.

“I needed to have my pocket watch repaired at Mr. Becker’s shop,” Tom said. “And you?”

She held up her parcels. “I’m doing a bit of shopping. The summer frocks have arrived. And I bought a new hat.”

“I’m sure that any of the dresses would look becoming on you. Especially the blue ones.” He blushed.

Jimmy observed the exchange with a grin.

“Why, thank you,” she said, milking the compliment. She had mastered the passive plea for more just by batting her eyelashes.

Clutching his hat in his hand, Tom said, “Miss Morgan, I’d be most pleased to buy you a sarsaparilla or an egg cream.”

“I’d like that,” she said as they strolled down State Street, with Jimmy walking alongside.

Tom took her arm and guided her between the other adults and children out promenading down the paving bricks, headed toward Platt & Colt’s.

At the drugstore, they found stools amid the bustle and ordered three ice cream sodas–chocolate for Thomas, strawberry for Libbie, and vanilla for Jimmy. Although he could ill afford it, Thomas paid for all three. He and Jimmy spoke of their time on their respective farms and their favorite subjects at school.

“I love science,” Jimmy said. “I like going hunting and knowing what it is I’m cutting up when I gut it.”

Libbie gasped.

“You know, like the liver or the heart or the kidneys,” Jimmy continued. “And I like to look at rocks and know what kind they are, like shale or geodes or such. You know, they have volcanoes in the South Seas that explode and do all kinds of awful damage. You’ve heard of Krakatoa, right?”

Libbie nodded.

“That’s science,” he clarified.

“I enjoy arithmetic,” Tom said. “I suppose that’s why I like my job at the clockworks. It’s my way of working with numbers.”

Libbie sipped her soda and considered the science versus math conundrum. “I hated arithmetic, and I wasn’t very good at science. But I love literature. Have either of you read
The Spoon River Anthology
? You simply must.”

“What’s it about?” Tom asked.

“It’s a little town in Illinois,” she continued, “and there are all these dead people. Each section of the book is a person’s epitaph.”

Jimmy stirred his soda.

Most likely wondering how the heck anyone has money to spend on books
, Libbie thought, looking at him.

Tom furrowed his brow.

“An epitaph,” she said, able to see he was confused. “You know, when you die. What they put on your tombstone, or what people remember about you. It’s fascinating. Free verse, I think they call it. Have you read
Sons and Lovers
or
Sister Carrie
?”

Tom and Jimmy shook their heads. She could see Tom didn’t have much time for reading, and when he did, it was probably things like the
Katzenjammer Kids
or
Tarzan
. She took a spoonful of ice cream, savoring it as it slid around in her mouth.

“If you think I should read these books, I’ll purchase them right away,” Tom said.

“Nonsense. You can borrow my copies,” she said, taking a last mouthful. You may call on me tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll lend them to you.” She collected her things and let him know that she needed to catch the streetcar.

“I’d enjoy paying you a social call,” Tom said.

“Then I shall see you at three o’clock at my house. Seneca Street near Stewart,” she replied. “The blue two-story with the black trim. Oh, and thank you for the drink.”

The next afternoon, at two thirty, Thomas pleaded with his landlady, Mrs. Catherine Protts, to let him claim some of the blossoms from her garden so that he could go courting in a proper fashion. He told her he had spent the last few coins he had this month on the ice cream sodas, and now he had nothing to spare for anything like candy or flowers. Not if he wanted to make rent, anyway.

“Courting, you say?”

“Yes, Mrs. Protts. Courting. A beautiful young lady. I need to make a good impression, but I know my rent is due soon, and I don’t want to run short. Your garden is so beautiful, with so many exquisite flowers; I know you’d love to show them off by helping me win a young lady’s heart. You could spare a few, couldn’t you?”

Catherine Protts was seventy years old, with a chin full of whiskers, a set of badly fitting false teeth, and no patience for phony talk. But Estabrook was her favorite tenant. Always on time with the rent, spoke like a charmer, and he was a looker to boot. If she were fifty years younger…

“All right, son. You’ve the gift of gab, I’ll give you that much!” she said with a chortle. She rubbed her chin and laid out instructions, pointing at each as she cut a stem. “You can have some of the daisies and the dame’s rocket. Oh, and some love-lies-bleeding. Let’s see. A few of these lilies, and one or two of these irises. But don’t touch my roses!” she thundered. “Let me get you a vase. You’ll look ridiculous taking her a bunch of dead flowers.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to leave you short a vase,” he protested.

“Don’t worry, young Tom. I have plenty. My brother’s a potter.”

She ambled up the front porch back into the house, returning with a hideous piece of some sort of ceramic. He was fortunate that the misshapen container was almost hidden by the luxurious magenta blossoms of the dame’s rocket and the sad hearts of the love-lies-bleeding, which drooped lazily over the pot’s sides.

She chuckled in her throaty way as she handed it to him. “I didn’t say he was a good potter.”

“Are you certain, Mrs. Protts? All this? It’s such a generous gesture. I can’t thank you enough,” he said, astounded by the stunning bouquet he was now carrying. He leaned down and gave her an impulsive peck on the cheek.

“Of course I’m certain. Now go win the hand of your lady fair,” she said with a cackle, which became a hacking cough.

With his heart in his throat, Tom approached the door of the intimidating mansion on Seneca Street. He grasped the gleaming doorknocker and rapped it twice against its metal base. A servant answered the door and led him into the parlor, where he took a seat on the plum velvet divan. Waiting with his cap in hand, he looked around the elegant room, and his leg wiggled of its own accord. He’d never felt so out-of-place in his life. The walls were covered with floral wallpaper and oak wainscoting. The high ceilings and cut glass chandelier dominated the room. A patterned carpet in shades of plum and gold covered the glossy hardwood floors. One whole wall in the back of the room was covered with carved bookshelves full of impressive volumes—everything from the classical Greek philosophers to the founding fathers to more recent novels. He set the ceramic vessel on the table in front of him, hoping it wouldn’t leak on the expensive-looking furniture. Soon, he was joined by an ebullient George, who buried his snout in Tom’s crotch.

Fending off the affections of the hundred-pound dog was not an easy task, but at last he managed to extricate himself from the range of the questing wet nose and find a better spot on the settee. Just when his anxiety was about to overwhelm him, Libbie flitted downstairs and into the parlor. She wore a sky blue silk dress, and her black hair fell loose around her shoulders.

Feeling his breath catch at the sight of her, he stood when she entered the room. She was carrying several books.

She accepted the small kiss he gave her hand. Then, seeing George sitting near her visitor, ready for another opportunity to pounce, she turned and commanded, “George! Down!”

The huge black shape retreated a few feet, then collapsed onto the floor panting.

“These are for you,” Tom said, handing her his prize bouquet, pleased to see it had not left a water spot on the precious table.

“How thoughtful. Thank you.” She buried her face in them to inhale their fragrance.

“Juliana!” she called.

The maid drifted back into the room from the vicinity of the kitchen. Libbie handed her the flowers.

“Please place these on my dressing table where I can admire them later.”

“Yes ma’am.” The servant nodded, disappearing again.

“These must be the books you spoke of yesterday,” Tom said, needing something to say. Of course they were the books. She must think him an awful dolt. Tom wondered if he might be able to smell her delicate perfume on them. He doubted he’d get much reading done with that scent of lilacs taunting him.

“Yes. I want to share them with you. Come here.” She crossed to the settee and sat down, smoothing her skirts. Patting the seat next to her, she looked up at him and smiled. “This is the
Spoon River Anthology
. Read it first, since I shall miss it if you don’t bring it back right away. I do adore it so.” She held a thin, tan-colored volume in front of her, hugged it to her chest, then handed it to him.

He smiled and took it.

“The second is
Sons and Lovers
. It’s by Mr. Lawrence, and it’s rather scandalous. In fact, I’ve been told it’s been criticized for being obscene. Can you imagine?” She looked thrilled to be imparting such outrageous gossip about the book and edged a little closer to him. “But I enjoy reading provocative things. Don’t you?”

He didn’t know what provocative meant, but he was getting a sense from her nearness and the scent of lilac. “I’m not sure, Miss Morgan.”

“Provocative. You know. Tending to provoke, stimulate, or excite?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Libbie!” a female voice called.

“In here, Mother,” she said, rising and crossing several feet of floor before the entrance of Morgan mère into the parlor. Tom rose in deference as well.

“Oh, forgive me,” Mrs. Morgan cried. “I had no idea we had company. Libbie, how unforgivably rude of you. Won’t you introduce me to our guest?”

“Mother, this is Mr. Thomas Estabrook. Mr. Estabrook, my mother, Harriett Morgan.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, ma’am,” Tom said with a slight bow, hat in hand. He felt unequal to shaking her hand or kissing it. She was a dignified lady, and he was a mere farmer’s son.

“Estabrook,” her mother said, thinking for a moment. “Are you employed at the clockworks, young man?”

“Yes, ma’am. Elizabeth was just…letting me borrow some books. They sounded very interesting.” He was pleased that Libbie must have mentioned him to her mother already.

“I hear you know the Reverend Savercool.” Her smile did not include her eyes, which remained icy and unexpressive.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s a very good pastor. They miss him down in Newfield, I hear.”

“Libbie, where is your sister?” Harriett asked.

“Mother, I’m sure I don’t know.”

Harriett sighed. “Juliana will begin preparing dinner very soon. I suggest you freshen up.”

Libbie rolled her eyes after her mother’s departure.

“Your mother is very beautiful,” Tom said.

Libbie shrugged. “I suppose so.” Then she turned her attention back to her guest.

“You should call on me tomorrow. We can go for a stroll.”

“I would be most flattered, Miss Morgan.”

“Good. Three o’clock, then. You must do some reading this evening. You can let me know tomorrow how the books are coming.”