The Time Travelers, Volume 2 (2 page)

They were extremely attractive to Flossie, who had
fallen in love with the stone carver’s son, Johnny. Flossie was even now huddled behind the lace curtain in the tower room, watching them work. Devonny could hardly wait to get upstairs so she and Flossie could discuss Johnny’s bare chest.

Lord Winden, however, wanted to talk.

Devonny felt that people should talk only when she wanted talk, and get out of the way when she wanted them out of the way. Her father said this attitude would not be useful in marriage, but luckily Devonny was barely sixteen, and not considering marriage.

Devonny would fall in love one day like Flossie, and her love, too, would be mad and dangerous and beautiful. But not now. Devonny wanted love, like talk, to come at the exact hour when it would be convenient. Not sooner, and not later.

In the distance, a chestnut mare, ridden by Devonny’s stepmother, Florinda, cantered across the meadow. How lovely Florinda was in her black habit, her tall hat, her perfect sidesaddle posture.

Lord Winden’s only real interest was horses. Devonny and Lord Winden had gone riding several times, and the advantage was that conversation was limited. Lord Winden’s conversation was limited anyhow, so it was a fine arrangement.

“I have not seen the fountain,” he conceded. “More attractive than bricklaying, Miss Stratton, would be your father’s golf course.”

“Do you play golf, Lord Winden?” Devonny thought better of him now that he had a second interest in life.

“Of course. Have you tried it yourself? I have seen ladies on the greens.”

Devonny could beat Lord Winden using a tennis racket to hit the golf ball, and she considered explaining this, but decided it was time to practice flirting. If she began now, at sixteen, by the time she came out in two years, she would be excellent, and the young men of Society would swoon in her presence. So she said, “I am sure you are superb.” This was a complete lie, but Devonny had observed that this was flirting: lying to men.

She must acquire every skill, because at eighteen, she would be ready for the greatest shopping expedition of all: husband hunting. Since she knew exactly what she wanted, it was just a matter of tracking him down.

“Perhaps this afternoon you and I might enjoy a game of golf,” said Lord Winden.

Devonny adored the clothing of golf. Father chose Devonny’s wardrobe, and he had forbidden her to wear the new style, which was very plain: long-sleeved white shirt, ankle-length unadorned dark skirt. Devonny loved this style, which felt so businesslike, and brought closer her dream of being a Self-Made Woman.

But in obedience to her father, she wore a flounced yellow and white striped organza gown, cut low to display a smashing necklace. If she agreed to golf, she could put on white stockings, a white skirt that stopped
above her ankles
, and a white blouse with navy trim. A sailor suit. Such was the power of clothing that in so short a dress, Devonny felt swifter and more able.

“I should be delighted,” she said, wondering if she should thrash him at golf or let him win. “And now, if you will excuse me, sir …”

They bowed to one another, and she sailed indoors, forcing herself to mount the great stair slowly, and with dignity, rather than taking the steps two at a time to get the love letter to Flossie. Oh, it was all so much fun! She doubted if poor old Lord Winden had ever had any fun in his life. She glided under huge portraits of glaring grandparents. She stepped around the great flowing velvet drapes, which lay on the floor like wine-red snowbanks, and reached the next floor. Then she charged down the hall, threw open the tower door, slammed it behind her, raced up the tower stairs and ripped off her glove to give the note to Flossie.

Inside was not just handwriting. Johnny had included a lock of his beautiful curly black hair. Flossie closed her eyes with joy.

I will feel like that someday, thought Devonny.
Bells and stars and fireworks. I, too, will have a keepsake book for the love letters and the curl of hair.

“Do you know how he spells Johnny?” said Flossie dreamily, putting the lock of hair against her lips and kissing it. “G-I-A-N-N-I.” She folded the flimsy paper back over the lock of hair, and closed her fingers as if slipping on a wedding ring. “Devonny,” she whispered, her smile so pure that Flossie seemed nothing but joy, “I am going to marry him.”

Devonny was irked. Johnny was entertainment, nothing more. “Don’t be silly, Flossie. Your parents would never speak to you again.”

“I shall live with him in his house.”

Flossie Van Stead was the fourth daughter in an immensely wealthy family. Her summer cottage was even larger than Devonny’s, her yacht longer and her private rail car more sumptuous.

“The Annellos live in a four-family tenement, Flossie. His mother actually cooks the food they eat.” It was peculiar food, too, a mushy wormlike dish called macaroni; Johnny had brought it in his lunch pail and neither girl had been willing to taste it. “She washes their clothes, Flossie, in a tub, with her own hands. You can’t do that. She shovels the ashes out of the stove!”

Flossie waved this away. “Mama and Papa won’t let that happen. Once we’re married, they’ll give us all the money we need.”

“Married!” cried Devonny. “But this is a game! We’re just playing.”

Flossie lifted Devonny’s hands and clasped them between her own. “No,” she said, as if from a great distance. “No, dear friend. Johnny and I are not playing.”

Devonny shivered at the intensity of Flossie’s soft voice.

“Johnny and I are going to elope.”

But Flossie’s mother and father would not give her all the money she needed. They would not permit her in their house again, nor speak her name, for Johnny was Italian, and Roman Catholic, and poor, and low-class.

Devonny knew well what an angry parent could do. When her own brother, Strat, had disappointed their father, Strat (the only son; the beloved heir) had been locked up in a lunatic asylum. There had been no pity. There had been no discussion.

A failed child was disposed of.

If Strat, so fine and strong and handsome, so bright and capable and affectionate, could be tossed aside like trash into the alley, what would become of Flossie?

“You must help us,” whispered Flossie.

Devonny gasped and moved away, touching the panes of the encircling windows, trying to collect herself.
Clouds danced on a brilliant blue sky. The sea shimmered green and foamed white. The woods were scarlet and gold. On such a day, Strat should be here, playing tennis, laughing on the beach, going for a sail.

Whatever had happened to Strat, they would never learn. As the months had gone by without him, hope for Strat had been dashed like seawater on wicked rocks.

They had not found his bones.

Devonny had disobeyed her father many times, but only in small ways: used the telephone without permission; ridden her horse astride like a man; taken off her veil and let the sun beat on her cheeks, risking her greatest asset, her pale complexion. For Flossie to disobey in the matter of a husband—it was unthinkable.

Marry without permission? A Roman Catholic? A laborer? An Italian?

The Van Steads had three other daughters to consider ahead of a foolish one like Flossie, and what was a daughter, anyway, but someone who had not turned out to be a boy? Mr. and Mrs. Van Stead would destroy Flossie as Father had destroyed Strat.

Devonny must prevent this idea of eloping! “Flossie,” she began, “he isn’t our kind.”

“I shall become his kind,” said Flossie. Love glowed on her face. Flossie was willing, Flossie was
eager
, to cut off her life. No more Society, no more
travel, no more parents and family and friends, no dresses or dancing or parties. Had she no comprehension of what she would lose?

Flossie pointed out the tower window. The men laying stone along the fountain’s edge had stopped for a break. They wiped sweat from their foreheads. The afternoon sun beat down, turning their skin copper. Johnny was wandering away from his father and uncles and cousins, sauntering toward the long narrow dirt path that led to the holly garden. There he would wait for Flossie.

Devonny loved that path. On one side, a cliff fell straight down to the ocean, and on the other, high shrubs tickled the passerby with delicate branches. Alone on that path she felt like a frontier woman, her rifle at her side to shoot bears that threatened her babies. Soon the men would widen the path, adding stone walls and little stone lookouts, and the frontier feeling would be ruined.

But if Flossie took that path,
she
would be ruined.

Devonny had known somebody once who had been willing to step across a greater border than Flossie would cross: a girl from another time and place, who had come to save Strat when nothing and no one else could do it.

Was it Devonny’s turn now to take a great risk for love, even though it was not her own love? Must she
risk all for Flossie? Or should she take the deep and terrible choice of telling on Flossie? Telling in time to prevent such a dreadful act? Would that be love … or the terrible betrayal of her most important friendship?

Again she thought of Strat. Annie Lockwood had existed, and Devonny knew that somehow Annie had saved Strat. From this distance, her certainty really did seem lunatic.

And yet … she believed. She believed that the love of Annie had rescued her brother.

So Devonny said, in honor of love, “Yes, I will help you, Flossie. Go. Catch up to Johnny. I will keep the household busy.”

Below, on the spreading porch, Lord Winden uncovered the letter he had been writing to his mother, the Duchess. He paid no attention to green fields and white-capped ocean. He did not notice the gleaming white veranda floors, the robin’s egg blue ceilings and the lacy carved balustrades around him. He continued the second paragraph.

As Flossie rushed joyfully down the back stairs, Devonny sailed down the front. She slowed to a ladylike pace and prepared herself to keep the gentlemen occupied, to prevent anybody from catching a glimpse of Flossie.

Out on the porch, Lord Winden had been joined by his two useless companions. Devonny paused in front of the huge hall mirror to inspect herself and be sure she did not look as emotional as she felt. Her hair, on which her maid had spent an hour that morning, was fixed in plump ringlets, which gleamed pleasingly in a ray of afternoon sun.

Gordon’s voice came clearly through the open screen door. “I will be glad to return home. In this country, one must be polite to so many unpleasant people.”

“There are uses for Americans,” said Miles.

“No,” said Hugh-David, “one use. Money.”

The men laughed.

The tables were piled with afternoon desserts: cakes and creams and lofty pies with whipped meringues. Flowers were everywhere, and so were bees.

Devonny hoped Hugh-David would get stung.

“Just get her pregnant, have a son and be done with her,” came the suggestion.

“I can’t put the girl on the shelf that quickly. I’ll want a second son,” said Hugh-David.

It occurred to Devonny that Flossie would have Johnny’s son. She blushed to be thinking of such a thing, but how were sons created? She and Flossie discussed this often, but had come to no conclusions.

Who decided whether a baby would be a boy or a girl? It must be God. If it were up to the husband, no girl would ever be born.

“And Lisette?” said Miles. “Does she know you’re taking a bride?”

“Of course. Lisette is delighted,” said Hugh-David. “Think of all the Stratton money I can now spend on her.”

Stratton money? thought Devonny. She paused, fingertips resting on the glass doorknob.

“American women are difficult about things like this,” warned Gordon.

“Miss Stratton is a child. She won’t understand,”
said Hugh-David. “But you’re quite right, of course. American women are very tedious on the subject of mistresses.”

Devonny might be a child, but now she understood all too well. She stormed out onto the porch. “Who do you think you are, you pitiful excuse for a man?” she shouted at Lord Winden.