The Rose Garden (13 page)

George said good night and went upstairs to bed. Charles stood on the hearthrug, gazing into the mirror that hung over Leona's mantelpiece. He swirled his brandy gently in his glass and stared at his reflection.

“Your Aunt Amelia was quite taken with me,” he said. “In fact, we flirted a little, there toward the end of the evening. She must have been quite a belle in her day. What is it you women see in me, Leona?” He turned his head and glanced sidewise at her, teasing her. “Tell me, Leona, darling, what do you see in me? Let's talk about it. . . . Oh, well, if you won't talk— No, you've had your chance. I'll puzzle it out myself. Mirror, mirror— No, that's too boring. But they do say the eyes are the windows of the soul.” He
leaned forward, smiling into his own eyes.

A dreadful squawk reached them from upstairs.

Charles leaped back from the mirror. “What was that?” he cried.

But Leona was already halfway up the stairs. She switched the landing light on as she reached the top, and saw Bridie, hair in disarray, eyes glittering, come out of Lady Ailesbury-Rhode's bedroom with the velvet hot-water bottle hugged to her bosom. Then Lady Ailesbury-Rhode appeared, wearing a camel's hair dressing gown, slippers of maroon leather, and a hair net.

“Leona, what is the meaning of this?” she asked. “I awoke from a sound sleep to find this woman clutching my foot.”

“She had it in the bed with her, Ma'am,” Bridie said.

“I'm dreadfully sorry, Aunt Amelia,” Leona said, and started to cry.

Lady Ailesbury-Rhode blinked with embarrassment. “Oh, don't take on so, child. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, although I don't usually need the hot-water bottle refilled in the night. Oh, Mr. Runyon, there you are. What a pickle you find us in.”

Leona realized that Charles had run upstairs after her, and was standing behind her. She moved to lean against the wall.

George's bedroom door opened, and he came out, knotting his dressing gown and blinking. “Anything wrong?” he asked. “I thought I heard voices.”

“A little misunderstanding, George,” Lady Ailesbury-Rhode said. “Leona, dear, if your maid will take the hot-water bottle to the kitchen and refill it now, I shall be delighted. So kind of you. Good night, my dear.”

She withdrew into her room and closed the door. George disappeared into his room. Bridie rustled past Leona and Charles, and went downstairs. She tried to catch Leona's eye as she went past, but Leona no longer cared for plots or signals. She felt
Charles standing near her, and longed for him to speak to her, but he walked down the hall to his own room and went in, shutting the door. Leona ran after him, and, receiving no response to her knock, she opened the door and stepped into the room. Charles was sitting in his great easy chair by the window, smoking. He looked coolly at her.

“Well?” he said.

“Oh, Charles,” Leona sobbed, “what can I say? How can you ever forgive me? But I was so confused when she arrived, and I wanted everything to be just right. And then I was frightened and I didn't know what to do. Please try to understand, Charles! Here we're going to have this lovely party tomorrow night, and don't let's spoil everything. I'll make it up to you, Charles, I promise I will. I promise, Charles!”

“Sorry, my dear. I won't be at your party tomorrow,” Charles said.

Leona stopped crying and stared at him. “Not be at the party, Charles?”

“I shall be leaving first thing in the morning, Leona. I can call a taxi from the village to take me to the station, I presume.”

Leona watched him take a puff of his cigarette. She thought of Lady Ailesbury-Rhode's domineering voice, and of Bridie's imperfectly hidden derision, and of Dolly's inane laughter, and of the olive-green velvet hot-water bottle, and of the eternity she had spent this evening, alone and frightened, trying to make everything go right for everybody.

“All right, Charles,” she said wretchedly. “Bridie will call your taxi whenever you want it.”

She closed the door and walked, weeping, down the hall to her own room, where she threw her clothes on the nearest chair and fell into bed, and, strangely enough, dropped off at once into a deep sleep.

When she awoke, it was ten o'clock. She had meant to be up at eight, because of the party. There was so much still to be done. And then she remembered that although Lady Ailesbury-Rhode was still under her roof, Charles had gone. Forever, Leona thought. Tears rolled down her face. I can't go through with this day, she thought. Not without him.

There was a tap at the door, and Bridie came in, bearing a tray of coffee and toast.

“When you didn't come down for breakfast, Ma'am, I thought I'd let you sleep. You looked that tired last night.” She gazed avidly at Leona, who sat up and reached for her robe, which was not in its accustomed place beside her bed. “I'll get it, Ma'am,” Bridie said, and took it from the closet.

Leona ignored her glance at the untidy heap of clothes on the chair. She had no more favors to ask of Bridie, and she wasn't going to stand any nonsense from her.

“Has Lady Ailesbury-Rhode had her breakfast, Bridie?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“She had tea in her room at eight, Mrs. Harkey. And she came down to breakfast at nine. And now she's out walking with Mr. Runyon. He's showing her around the place.”

“Mr. Runyon?”

“Yes, Ma'am. He gave me a note to give you. He was all worried for fear I'd wake you up with it. Here it is. He gave it to me when I brought him up his coffee, but I promised him I wouldn't give it to you till I thought you were ready to get up.”

“All right, Bridie,” Leona said. “Never mind those clothes. You can pick them up later. I'll be down in an hour.”

Bridie left reluctantly. As soon as the door closed, Leona tore the note open. “Dear Leona,” it said, “I was joking, of course. I was punishing you a little. You have been a bad girl, you know. What a delicious day for our party. My big oak turned quite gold
in the night, and threw two of his leaves right through my window and onto my table, where they are still resting, the darlings. See you at lunch. Or sooner?”

Oh, Charles, Leona thought. Oh, thank you, Charles!

Light with joy and anxious for a complete reconciliation, she dressed quickly. As she came from her bedroom into the hall, she saw that his door, at the far end, stood open. She peered in. The room was empty, and it had not yet been tidied. She walked to the writing desk and touched the oak leaves gently. Dear Charles . . . She looked at the chair in which he had sat last night, so hurt, so cruel, and so unforgiving. Dear Charles, she thought gratefully, I'll make amends somehow. She glanced at his pier glass and saw herself wearing a dress of thin red wool, artfully fitted to her long figure. The clear, bright color made her skin glow and deepened the dark haze of her hair. A flame, she thought. Dear, dear Charles. She rested her elbow on his white mantelpiece and thought of him. Then, in surprise, she saw that his fireplace was scattered with ashes, although the logs had not been charred and the kindling under them was whole. She reached down. Charles had been burning paper, but not enough to start a blaze. A letter or something, she thought idly, and would have turned away, but her eye was caught by a tiny white ball that had rolled away from the grate and was caught by the floor boards. She picked it up and smoothed it out. “Dearest Leona,” she read. “Of course you have realized by now that I was jesting. I was, you know. I was hurt and I tried to hurt you. I'll be here for the party. And I'll be here next weekend and next weekend and next weekend. What times we are going to have together. And do you know, that splendid oak outside my window (the one I call
my
oak, darling) blazed” . . .

The note was unfinished. Leona put it in her pocket and looked at the ashes in the grate. There must have been several notes. She grew thoughtful. Why, Charles was
anxious
to stay. He was just as
anxious to stay as she was to have him here.

Before leaving the room, she cast one last glance around it. It was, after all, a very nice room. It was an enchanting room. Any man would be glad to have such a room.

That night, Leona gave the best party she had ever given. Everyone said so. Lady Ailesbury-Rhode was charming, and Charles Runyon was in top form. Leona looked radiant, in a clinging dress of woodsmoke-blue silk that left her sloping white shoulders bare. She was really a marvelous hostess. She seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet she never seemed worried or abstracted. Her confidence was superb, and as she wandered, smiling, from group to group, and from room to room, the eyes of her friends followed her with admiration and envy. Curiously enough, no one noticed that she did not exchange one word with Charles all evening. Only Charles noticed.

This was a new game for Leona, and she loved it. She could feel Charles's tension as she moved lightly through the rooms. She knew that he was watching her, however entertained and entertaining he might seem to the others. She knew it by the turn of his head as she came near his chair, which she passed quickly, laughing to someone at the far side of the room. She knew it by the set of his back as he stood talking near the buffet table and heard her voice calling to someone at his side. She had first felt her power as they met in the living room before lunch, and she challenged his amused, ironical gaze with an amused, ironical gaze of her own, and saw his puzzled frown. How long, Leona thought, pushing open a window to let the cold night air into the loud, warm rooms—how long will I punish him? Will I forgive him tonight, when they've all gone home and he wants that last little nightcap by the fire? Or will I go straight to bed and let him spend the night wondering? I might forgive him before lunch tomorrow.
Or wait until Aunt Amelia leaves. That might be best—to wait till she leaves. He'll really be worried by then. But I would like to talk over the party tonight. Oh, well, I have hours yet before they go. And she closed the window (a little of that air was enough) and wandered idly toward the spot where Charles stood, the center of a delighted group, fascinating everyone, as always. Everyone but me, Leona thought, and ignored his hopeful eyes and passed casually by to watch for another opportunity to ignore him. Leona thought she had never had such fun in her life as she was having ignoring Charles.

The Divine Fireplace

T
hirty miles above New York, on the east bank of the Hudson River, there is a green, shadowy, densely wooded glade known as Herbert's Retreat. In the glade, still standing in it, many of them after two hundred years, are thirty-nine elegant white houses. A single narrow road, capricious, twisting, and unpredictable, meanders through the dark labyrinth of trees to make the only visible link between the houses, which are isolated and almost hidden, each one from the next. The road is strictly private, in keeping with the spirit of the Retreat, which is solemn, exclusive, and shaped by restrictions that are as steely as they are vague. The most important fact, not vague at all, about Herbert's Retreat is that only the right people live there.

One rainy Sunday morning early in April, an olive-green bus, very smart, with “Herbert's Retreat” printed in small capitals on its door, made its way slowly through the Retreat, stopping at every house, and from each doorway, in turn, a female figure, wearing a flowered hat and sheltered under a large umbrella, flew forward and climbed aboard. The Irish maids were going to Mass in town, eleven miles away. The maids looked forward to these Sunday-morning
rides, which gave them the chance of a great gossip. And the ride gave them a chance to escape from the monotony of their uniforms. Their positive, coaxing voices rose and fell, but rose, mostly, in an orgy of sympathy, astonishment, indignation, furious satisfaction, and derision. Not one of them was calm, or thinking about saying her prayers, and every time the bus stopped they all peered eagerly through the streaming windows to see who was getting in next, as if they didn't know.

The Tillbrights—wild Harry Tillbright and his pretty second wife—owned the last house the bus stopped at before it swung out onto the public highway, so Stasia, the Tillbrights' maid, was the last to be picked up. This Sunday, as Stasia, dressed and ready, with her gloves on and her prayer book in her hand, waited in the Tillbrights' hall, she was in a painful state of mind, half wishing the bus would hurry and half wishing it wouldn't come at all. She wanted to be in her seat telling the girls about all that had gone on in her house last night, and at the same time she hated to leave, for fear something further would happen while she was away. She didn't want to miss one minute of this day, which was going to be about the worst the Tillbrights had ever known. It was terrible to Stasia to think she might miss the fearful, glorious moment when their two lady guests started to wake up and realize the condition they were in. Not to speak of the condition the house, the adored, cherished house, was in. And all their own fault. There will be murder here today, Stasia thought happily. No, no, I'm wrong, she thought—not murder today; the murder was last night. Today is when they pay the price. She could have danced with excitement, except that she was suffocating with it. She wanted to howl with laughter, but she dared not make a sound, for fear of rousing them too soon. What pleasure it would have been to run upstairs and gallop in and out of their bedrooms, shouting “Haw haw haw,” giving them worse headaches than they already had. To charge
into Mr. and Mrs. Tillbright's room and bend right down over the pillows they shared and roar into their defenseless ears, “Come on down and see what you did to your grand kitchen! And your living room! Wait till you see the carpet in the living room!” To keep after them, tormenting them till they howled for mercy. Except that they won't have the strength to howl this morning, Stasia thought. It was too good a story to believe, almost; too rich. The girls would be carried away. If I get any more carried away than I am, thought Stasia, I won't be able to talk at all.