The Chaperone (3 page)

Still, she cleared her throat.

“Alan. Do you know Leonard Brooks?”

She waited for his nod, though she already knew the answer. Alan knew all the other lawyers in town.

“Well,” she said, “his eldest daughter got into a dance school in New York. He and his wife would like a married woman to chaperone her. For the month of July, and some of August.” She rubbed her lips together. “I think I’ll go.”

She glanced at him only briefly, seeing his surprise, before she turned back to her window. They were already close to home, moving down the tree-lined streets, past their neighbors’ pretty houses and neat lawns. There was much that she would miss while she was away: club meetings and ladies’ teas, the summer picnic in the Flint Hills. She would likely miss the birth of a friend’s fourth child, which was unfortunate, as she was to be the child’s godmother. She would miss her friends, and of course, she would miss Alan. And these familiar streets. But her world would still be here when she returned, and this was her chance to go.

Alan was silent until he pulled in front of the house. When he did speak, his voice was quiet, careful. “When did you decide this?”

“Today.” She took off her glove and touched a fingertip to the glass, tracing a raindrop’s path. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back. It’s just a little adventure. It’s like the twins, going to the farm. I’ll be back before they leave for school.”

She looked up at the house, lovely even in the rain, though far too big for them. It was a house built—and bought—for a large family, but given the way things turned out, they’d never used the third floor for anything but a playroom, and then for storage. Still, even now that the twins had moved out, neither she nor Alan wanted to sell. They both still loved the quiet neighborhood, and they loved the house, how majestic it looked from the street with its wraparound porch and pointed turret. They reasoned that it would be nice for the twins to be able to come home to a familiar place. They’d kept their rooms as the boys had left them, their beds made, their old books on the shelves, the better to lure them home for summers and holiday breaks.

“New York City?” Alan asked.

She nodded.

“Any reason in particular you want to go there?”

She turned, taking in his warm eyes, his cleft, clean-shaven chin. She had been just a girl when she first saw his face. Nineteen years they had lived together. He knew the particular reason.

“I might do some digging,” she said.

“You’re sure that’s for the best?”

“I can speak with Della in the morning about coming in earlier, or staying later. Or both.” She smiled. “If anything, you’ll gain weight. She’s a far better cook than I am.”

“Cora.” He shook his head. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

She turned away, her hand on the door. That was the end of the discussion. She’d made up her mind to go, and as they both understood very well, for them, that was all there was to it.

TWO

The Brookses lived on North Topeka Street,
close enough to Cora’s house that the walk might have taken another woman less than a quarter of an hour. But it took Cora much longer because, as had long been her habit, every time she heard the motor of a passing car, she lifted her parasol to see if it might be anyone she knew. If a friend or a friend of Alan’s was kind enough to stop to ask if she needed a ride or to comment on the lovely June morning, she was happy to stay and chat for a few minutes. She appreciated neighborliness, especially in this little city that still seemed so big to her after all these years. On this morning, however, she turned down all offers for rides, and would only say that she was on her way to meet a friend.

Still, she reached her destination on time, having left the house early to allow for diversions, and it was eleven o’clock exactly when the Brooks home came into view. Even painted a dull gray, it was a difficult edifice to miss. On a block of large houses, it was easily the largest, all three stories stretching more than halfway to the back alley; really, it seemed overgrown, too big for its average-sized plot. All the front windows were open to the breeze, except for one with a jagged crack across the frame, perhaps too fragile to lift. The surrounding lawn was freshly mown, and several lilac bushes, still in bloom, framed the shaded limestone porch. When Cora made her way up the steps, a bumblebee circled her twice before losing interest and buzzing away.

Myra opened the door with a smile, and Cora was at once reminded of and surprised by her hostess’s relative smallness. Cora was just shy of average height herself, and she wasn’t used to looking down at another grown woman, but she had at least four inches on Myra. She didn’t think of Myra as being short—she hardly appeared short when at a podium, and she had the low speaking voice of a taller woman. Despite her tiny frame, Cora had never heard anyone describe Myra Brooks as “cute” or “adorable” or even “pretty.” She was called “beautiful” or “captivating” or “appealing.” Today, even Myra’s pale neck appeared long, rising up from a white silk blouse with a flat collar, and her skirt, with its nipped waist and demure hemline just above her ankles, made her body seem longer, too. One dark strand of hair, escaped from a twist in back, hung down almost to her shoulder.

“Cora. So good to see you.” Her voice was soothing, melodious, and almost convincing. On the telephone, she’d pretended to know who Cora was. Now she clasped Cora’s free hand and took her parasol with the other. “You walked? In this heat? That’s impressive. I wilt in this sun, I swear.”

“It’s only a few blocks,” Cora said, though her back felt damp with sweat. She fished her handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her forehead. Myra waited, looking, on closer inspection, a little frazzled herself. The pearl buttons of her blouse had been buttoned incorrectly, leaving an extra hole at her throat and an extra pearl at the bottom.

“Please come sit. I can get you some lemonade. Or some tea? And I apologize for the condition of the house.” She shook her head, turning away. “Our girl usually comes at nine, but for some reason, no sign of her today. Of course she doesn’t have a telephone.” She threw her hands in the air and sighed. “Nothing to do but wait.”

Cora nodded, empathetic, though she always tried to clean as best she could before Della even arrived, not wanting to leave a bad impression, to have Della go home and tell her people what a slob her white employer was. As she followed Myra into the parlor, it became clear that her hostess was not burdened by this kind of worry. The room itself was lovely, spacious and full of light, with a breeze drifting in from two large windows. But there was clutter everywhere. On the floor, in no discernible design, lay a spoon, a fountain pen, a badminton racquet, a shoe horn, and also a naked doll with one blue eye missing. Farther on, not quite under a lovely brocaded settee, a pair of soiled socks lay next to an open-faced copy of
Candide
. Cora pretended not to notice the socks, and she tried to breathe through her mouth. Despite the open windows, the distinct smell of burnt bread permeated the air.

Myra sighed. “I’ve been upstairs working all morning. I’m giving a talk on Wagner next week.” She stooped to pick up the spoon, the doll, and the racquet. “The children are driving me crazy. They’re not even supposed to be in the parlor. I’m really so embarrassed. I’ll be right back. Tea? You’d like tea, you said? Or lemonade?”

Cora took a moment to answer. She had expected perfection, rooms as lovely as Myra herself. “Lemonade is fine.”

Myra moved through a pocket door, pulling it closed behind her. Cora stood where she was, wondering if she should kick the dirty socks under the settee. After a moment of hesitation, she did, and then, pleased with the result, surveyed the room again. Books, she noticed, were everywhere.
Latin Made Simple
rested on the window seat, a frayed green ribbon of a bookmark fluttering in the breeze. A small stack of books sat on the center table. She took a step closer, peering at the titles.
The Poems of Goethe.
An Artist in Corfu. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
The Origin of Species.
Under an upholstered chair, like a waiting footrest, crouched
The Collected Works of Shakespeare
.

Quick feet descended a creaking staircase, and a moment later, a curly-haired child of maybe seven wandered in from the hallway, using a spoon to eat what appeared to be chocolate icing out of a teacup. The chocolate was smeared against her pale cheeks, the front of her shirt, and the tip of her nose. She startled when she noticed Cora.

“Hello,” Cora said in her gentlest voice. “I’m Mrs. Carlisle. I’m a friend of your mother. I’m just here waiting for her.”

The girl swallowed another spoonful of chocolate. “Where is she?”

Cora nodded at the closed pocket door. “In there, I think.”

The door slid open. Myra glided back into the parlor, a glass of lemonade in each hand. Her smile faded when she saw the girl.

“Darling, what are you eating?” Her voice remained low and soft, though she handed Cora both of the lemonades so she could take the teacup and spoon from the girl. She looked into the cup and scowled. “June. This is not an acceptable lunch. I don’t think I need to tell you that. Go to the bathroom and wash your face, and then go find Theo.”

“He’s playing badminton with himself,” said the girl. “He said he didn’t want a partner.”

“Nonsense. I just found the other racquet where he was not supposed to leave it, and now it’s by the back door. After you wash up, go get it, and then go outside and find Theo. Mother has company. That will be all.”

With that, Myra turned to Cora, her smile restored, and took back one of the lemonades. Her blouse, Cora noticed, was now buttoned correctly. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the upholstered chair.

“I’m so impressed with all these books,” Cora said. As she sat, she was careful not to kick the Shakespeare beneath her chair.

“Oh.” Myra rolled her eyes. “The children leave those lying about. They can’t keep them in the library because of Leonard’s law books. That side of the house is actually sinking because he keeps so many, and they’re heavy.” She saw Cora’s smile and shook her head. “No. Really. The foundation has slipped fourteen inches. That’s why the windows are cracking. And he won’t get rid of one book.”

Cora tried to think of some mild complaint she could make about Alan, just to show understanding. But she couldn’t think of anything comparable. Alan, too, had many law books, but if the foundation started slipping under their weight, she was sure he would part with a few.

They looked at each other. It seemed to Cora that Myra should start.

“Beautiful girl,” Cora said, nodding to the pocket door through which June had disappeared.

“Thank you. Wait till you see Louise.”

Cora stared.

Myra took in her expression and shrugged. “You haven’t yet, I take it. I’m sorry. I’m just being frank. I feel I must be, given the nature of the… mission for which you’ve volunteered.” She looked at Cora skeptically. “You should know that you’ll be chaperoning a girl who is not only exceptionally pretty, but also very willful.”

Cora was again taken aback. Apparently, no conversation was necessary: Myra had already decided that Cora was a suitable chaperone. Cora had expected eventual approval and even gratitude, but she had also expected that Myra would ask a few questions first, some pretense of an interview.

“I’ve heard she’s quite pretty,” Cora said.

“What else have you heard?”

Cora straightened.

“Oh! I don’t mean anything horrendous!” Myra leaned forward and gave Cora’s arm a reassuring pat. She had big hands for such a small woman, her fingers narrow and long. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I only… I imagine you have many friends in town.” She leaned back, crossing her ankles. “I wondered if you’d spoken with, for example, Alice Campbell?”

Cora shook her head. The lemonade was too tart to sip. She had to work not to pucker her mouth.

“Oh. Well. Alice Campbell teaches dance and elocution at the Wichita College of Music.” Myra said this last phrase as if it were laughable, a joke in and of itself. “Louise studied with her for a few years. They butted heads, so to speak. Mrs. Campbell found her”—she glanced out one of the big windows, as if searching for the exact words—“spoiled, bad-tempered, and insulting. There were other adjectives, I recall. At any rate, she dismissed Louise from all classes.”

Cora frowned. She was going to New York. She’d already decided. If she backed out now, she might never go. Yet this information did complicate her idea of what kind of trip lay in store.

“I won’t say any of those things aren’t true of Louise,” Myra continued, setting her glass on the table. “Or at least, they’re true on occasion.” She smiled. “I dare say I know how difficult she can be better than anyone. But what I also know is that as hard as Louise can be on others, she’s always hardest on herself.” She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “She has an artistic temperament. And honestly, she’s already far more talented than Mrs. Campbell ever will be, and she has been for some time. She realized it while still a pupil. That was really the problem.”

Something heavy thumped the floor over their heads. A male voice called out, “Idiot!” Cora’s gaze moved upward. Myra appeared to hear nothing.

“Are you saying she’ll be… unruly?” Cora asked.

“No. On the contrary. I want to allay your fears. You see, whatever Louise’s temperament, you’ll have far more leverage than anyone has ever had with her, myself included. You’re her ticket to New York, and she knows it. Once you get there, you’ll continue to have enormous leverage, because if you decide to come home, she has to come home, too. Her father has already made that clear.”

Somewhere above them, glass shattered. That was quickly followed by a feminine, but guttural, shout. Again, Cora looked at the ceiling, and then at her hostess’s untroubled face.

“So with you,” Myra continued, “our little lion should be as docile as a lamb. She knows how hard I worked to get her father to agree to let her go, and she won’t jeopardize the result. Studying under Ted Shawn and Ruth St. Denis will be an enormous opportunity for her. You’re familiar with Denishawn?”