by Annie Proulx
“Oh yes, yes. But you said Dr. Hudson had two opinions.”
“I did. And he does. He said, should by any chance Mr. Brandon not thrive in the farmer’s care or should he become wild and phrenetic, it might be possible to arrange for him to be housed in Williamsburg, in Virginia, at the Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds, a unique institution that Boston absolutely must emulate. Here we see the mad and incompetent wandering the countryside, but in Williamsburg they are kept in a special place and treated. The caretakers effect many cures with plunge baths, various drugs, bleeding and certain salves. There are exercise yards.”
“It sounds very well. But first let us send him to the farmer. Should we not send his books of sermons as well? He might resume reading and writing. It meant much to him in earlier times before that lightning strike.”
“I will ask Dr. Hudson. He did mention ‘complete rest and quiet,’ but perhaps books would be allowed. This pie is delicious, is it not? Are you pleased with Mrs. Deere?”
“I am most pleased. And with Mrs. Blitter, who is a fair enough housekeeper. You are very good to me and I am grateful.” She looked at him with her great dark eyes.
But the next day he called again to say that books would not be allowed; books could cause brain fever even in people who had not been struck by lightning. The doctor himself would take Mr. Brandon to the farm on the coming Monday. In his breast pocket James heard the doctor’s bill crackle a little. A small price to get rid of the wretched Brandon.
44
keepsake
Spring came at last in early June, a rushing spate of warm days, the gutters streaming with meltwater, people smiling and walking about as though their legs were new-made. Birds raced through the branches, the smell of earth dizzied the senses. Posey Brandon opened the windows of her renovated and refurnished house before James Duke arrived for his afternoon tea. But he was late. She went to the window a hundred times and peered down the street, hoping to see the gig bowling along. On the tea table lay a tiny packet wrapped in blue paper, the minuscule label bearing the words “James Duke a Keepesake.” Would he not find it presumptuous? He would surely take his leave immediately, leaving it exposed on the table. He would withdraw Mrs. Deere and Mrs. Blitter. The bills would pile up.
Why did he not come? Was her benefactor ill or had he met with an accident? Surely he would have sent a messenger for any ordinary delay. Had he somehow found out about—it—the keepsake? She paced. The sunlight color began to deepen and late-afternoon chill flowed into the room. She closed the window and called for Mrs. Blitter.
“I am worrit that Mr. Duke is delayed for some reason. And it grows chill. I think we need a small fire in this room. If he does not come soon I must send a messenger to inquire.”
“We can send Mrs. Deere’s boy—that slow coach is still in the kitchen—he has been at it all day—taking out the old flour and molasses barrels.” Her voice was scornful.
“Yes, let us send him. Here, I will write a brief note.”
But before the fire was burning well Mrs. Deere’s boy was back.
“He was at the corner. I give him your note but he’s right at the gate. Hear his horse?”
• • •
“I am extremely sorry to be late,” said James Duke. “I was delayed by Dr. Hudson, who called on me only moments before I left. To be brief about it, he says that Mr. Brandon has become ill from some other source than his derangement. He coughs continuously and cannot keep any food down. He is very thin and weak. To spare the farmer’s wife extra work I have hired a day nurse to assist, for he is in bed in his room and cannot rise from it. Dr. Hudson has ordered two fresh eggs a day beaten into warm milk with a spoonful of rum and says he may recover with the warm days but he may not. We can only wait.”
Her entire body flooded with relief. That Mr. Brandon would make a generous exit was her deepest wish. It changed the afternoon. They both sat silent and pensive, both thinking of Mr. Brandon. She could not now give James Duke the gift. It would not be apropos. At first opportunity she slid the little packet up her sleeve unobserved. So they sat drinking tea and saying very little until the twilight deepened.
“I must go, I fear,” said James Duke, rising. “I wish—” But what he wished was not spoken.
“Of course I would like to see Mr. Brandon if there comes any—crisis,” she murmured.
“Dr. Hudson said he would come straight to you if, if, if the illness took a grave turn.” As he spoke the doctor’s gig turned in to the street and drew up before the house.
“Oh heavens,” said Mrs. Brandon. James stood waiting, exultation seizing him.
“Dr. Hudson, ma’am,” said Mrs. Blitter, opening the parlor door to show him in.
“Bring more tea, Blitter,” said Mrs. Brandon. She looked at the doctor. His face was expressionless, noncommittal.
“Dr. Hudson, do take tea with us,” she said although her bladder was bursting with tea. “I will just see to it,” and she strode briskly out of the room.
James Duke looked at him. “Is there a change?” he asked in a low voice.
“There is a change,” the doctor answered and said nothing more, waiting for Mrs. Brandon to return. The lady returned, skirts swishing with the violence of her stride.
“Please tell us, Doctor, how Mr. Brandon does.” Her voice was calm and steady.
“I am happy to say that he has rallied, rallied enough to eat heartily and drink like a camel. His derangement seems rather more settled as well. I think he must have passed some sort of crisis. He recognized me, inquired after your health, praised the farmer and his wife. He still objects to milk and bread but in a week or so we may try him with breast of chicken. I feel he might be able to come home soon. Certainly the day nurse is no longer needed,” he said with a nod at James indicating his release from that expense.
Posey was stunned into silence for a long, long beat. “Ah! But can I care for him here? The space is so limited, and the air is not the bracing country air. And certainly not if his derangement persists.” The fresh tea tray and a dish of seedcake arrived; Posey Brandon poured with a steady hand. “Sugar? Yes, lemon?” She passed a cup to the doctor.
“We will wait and see if he continues to improve. I allowed that tonight he may sleep on the farmhouse porch for the benefits of fresh air. In a week if he has grown stronger I think he will be little trouble. I can always send the nurse with him if there is any doubt. It’s rather an interesting case and it would be far easier for me to follow his progress if he were here instead of out in the country. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Duke?”
“Of course,” said James Duke in a grudging voice. “Who could disagree?”
When the clock struck the half hour the men rose, made their good-byes and went out together. James sent Mrs. Brandon a scorching look she quite understood. She smiled and nodded and as soon as the door closed ran to her room muttering sailors’ curses and threw herself into the pillows.
• • •
In the street gloaming it was difficult to see the doctor’s expression when James asked him if he might call on Mr. Brandon.
“Perhaps, in a day or two you might, but I fear that the appearance of a stranger alone might startle him into a relapse. I equally do not yet approve a visit from Mrs. Brandon. It is one of his crotchets that he has developed a fear of her and claims—ridiculous as it sounds—that she somehow harms him. But that will likely pass as he recovers his reason. Shall we go out to the farm together in the morning?”
“If I find I have no other appointments that would be agreeable,” said James Duke. But later, when the moon rose, he went to the stable, saddled his horse and in the gathering darkness took the high road out of the city toward the farm where Mr. Brandon lay dreaming of rib roast.
45
error compounded
The quiet morning broke into noisy pieces when Farmer Taunton’s youngest son, William, a grimy boy with a common face, pounded into the town bareback on a black pl
ow horse. He went panting to the house of his married sister, Charlotte, and she roused her husband, Saul Fleet, who ran to magistrate Jonas Gildart’s house and blurted out the tale, his voice leaping a high whinny and sinking back with the gravity of the news. The magistrate set his full coffee cup down. He pushed it away, sloshing the table.
Saul Fleet blurted, “Charlotte’s brother! He come in from the old place, brought word the old man been found dead. Layin on the porch floor. Strangled or choked looks like. Said his neck all crooked, color a rhubarb stalk.”
Mrs. Gildart brought her husband a new bowl of coffee and the magistrate continued his questions. Saul answered eagerly: No, he didn’t think the old man was given to falling down. No, his mother-in-law slept in the house. Had done so for many years, after a dispute over Mr. Taunton’s snoring, which shook the house timbers. Mr. Taunton slept on the porch in good weather and on the kitchen daybed in winter. He, Saul Fleet, had no idea why anyone would harm Mr. Taunton, a hardworking inoffensive man who did some blacksmithing on the side, was a regular churchgoer and neither drank nor smoked. His turnips were much prized.
The magistrate sent for Charlotte Fleet and her young brother William, who had brought the news. Charlotte knew nothing except what she had heard from William, and the magistrate turned to him.
“Well, boy, I have a few questions. You are William Taunton, the son of Jeremiah Taunton, is that not correct? Good, good. Now, what family members were sleeping in the house last night?”
“My mother, sir. My sister Abigail, me, and T-T-Tom.” He stuttered and mumbled.
“Who is Tom?”
“He is my big brother.”
“Were there any servants in the house?”
“Only Sarah Whitwell. She helps Mother with the washin and comes after prayers Sunday night to be at hand early on Mondays. She sleeps in the little bed in Mother’s room.”
“Did your father allow any vagrants or strangers to sleep in the barn last night?”
“No sir, he never lets them sleep in the barn. Unless they pay. In New England money.”
“And were there any of these paying strangers present last night?”
“Only Mr. Brandon, sir.”
“And who is Mr. Brandon?”
“He is a preacher sir, but is funny in the head from lightnin. He shows a gret big scar on his face. Mother cared for him and Mr. Duke paid Father. He stayed with us since two months or more. Father give him the good front room.”
“Who is Mr. Duke?”
“I don’t know, sir, but Father said he was a rich man. He drives a gig with two greys. Very good horses. I thought I heard them horses last night but it was a patridge in the woods.”
“And was Mr. Brandon in the house last night?”
“Yessir. Dr. Hudson said he was some better and could go home soon. He felt very well yesterday and wanted to sleep on the back porch for the fresh air. Pa said he wished Mr. Brandon could stay on as he was a good boarder and the money helped us.”
“And did Mr. Brandon sleep on the back porch last night?”
“No sir, he did not. Father’s bed is there and he said he would not be turned out of it for any man.”
“Did Mr. Brandon like your father?”
“Most times. But then he said he was sick and tired of bread and milk, which was what we fed him. Pa said, ‘Eat it or go hungry.’ And Mr. Brandon squinched up his eyes very fierce.”
“And where is Mr. Brandon now?”
“He is helpin Mother and Tom lay Father out. He’s mighty heavy, is Pa.”
The magistrate exchanged significant glances with two men who had come in with Dr. Hudson and dismissed the boy.
“It may be—” said the magistrate, “it may be that we must look at this fellow Brandon. Doctor, what can you tell us about him? Is he sick or well, what is the nature of his illness, is he strong, what is his disposition, does he have a grudge against Mr. Taunton?”
“He has been suffering from the effects of a lightning strike he sustained two years past and has certainly been much disturbed in his mind, babbling and confused and plagued by suspicions. But yesterday he appeared to be a little better and said he wished soon to go home.”
“In your opinion, Doctor, is it possible that this preacher nourished a hatred of Mr. Taunton on account of the bread and milk or whatever reason, and gripped by a mad fit in the night crept in and strangled him?”
“He was given to fears, that is true, but I never heard him say anything against Mr. Taunton. Except the bread and milk, which was being fed him on my orders. Of course he may have been overcome with jealousy over the porch bed. I gave him leave to sleep there but the boy says Mr. Taunton denied permission.”
“Could he not, in his disturbed mind, have laid the blame for the repetitive comestibles on Mr. Taunton? And the sequestering of the porch bed?”
“Yeee-es,” said the doctor reluctantly. “Of course it could have fallen out that way. But I do not think he is strong enough to strangle a man.”
“But it has been known, has it not, for insane persons to exhibit great strength in their fits?”
“It has been known, certainly. There are many mysteries associated with insanity.”
“So you knew him to be insane?”
“I knew him to have been deranged by a lightning bolt. He did have fits and temper tantrums. But I was quite sure he was mending well and soon would be as sane as you or I.”
“ ‘Soon would be’ is not the same as ‘was.’ And if there was no one there but the family and this Mr. Brandon, subject to fits of insanity, I put it to you that it was he who strangled Mr. Taunton. Gentlemen, I ask you to go out and return with Mr. Brandon, who must be examined and stand trial.”
Mr. Brandon was incarcerated and relapsed into fulminating babble of his innocence. His loyal flock stood in vigil outside the gaol singing hymns, and later, outside the court, when, after a speedy trial he was found guilty and a date set for his hanging.
46
business meeting
All through a hot damp Boston summer James Duke courted Posey Breeley Brandon. He knew that no one could ever grasp what she meant to him. He had been sent away as a boy, passed over for promotion, he had been poor and crushed. And then how everything had changed. The crown of joy was Posey. He knew also that his cousins would be scandalized by the age difference between them, for he was now fifty-five and Posey twenty years younger. She was his constant visitor. In the evenings, when a cooling sea breeze moved inshore, they walked in the rose garden, around and around the sundial, talking of lumber and true love’s knot, her silk skirt rustling, her great dark eyes cast low. They walked from the first leaves on the roses to pink buds, to opened petals, to drowsy full-blown lush blooms, to faded blossoms, frost-nipped browning leaves. He would do anything for her, had already done so without regret. She asked him for nothing except his company and his conversation. She paid rapt attention to everything he said, he who all his life had been ignored. But the getting of Posey was hard, and as long as Mr. Brandon lived (he had escaped hanging) she was not gettable. Not only did the minister’s congregation include two members connected to important Boston families but Brandon himself was the nephew of Judge Archibald Brandon, who moved silently behind the closest circles of power. The judge would not see his unfortunate relative, a man whom he believed had been the innocent victim of an evil marriage and a lightning bolt, hanged as a murderer.
“I almost understand why God laid this affliction on him,” said the judge to Dr. Hudson, whom he had discovered after a short search. “The city has become a stinking mire of corruption and evildoing. I see this as a sign of God’s punishing vengeance. And yet I cannot feel my nephew was guilty of strangling this farmer over disagreeable suppers. He was ever a gentle man.”
“There may be a way for him to avoid that—that end,” said the doctor. “I think we must appeal to the Williamsburg authorities at the Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds. There was some indicat
ion earlier that he might be harbored there.” The weight of the judge’s name, the pleas of Mr. Brandon’s flock and Dr. Hudson’s carefully composed essay on the felon’s gentleness secured him a room at the Virginia retreat. In the company of others with disordered minds Mr. Brandon shone out as a model inmate.
• • •
Freegrace called the October business meeting of Duke & Sons. As always James felt the significance of being a voting Board member. He dressed carefully: tan wool pantaloons with a narrow fall and instep straps, tan vest piped in black, single-breasted cutaway coat. He carried Sedley’s gold watch, and to its chain he had attached Posey Breeley Brandon’s gift, a gold-wreathed fob that enclosed a miniature painting of her beautiful left eye, for intimate eye paintings were all the rage. Beautiful the subject was, but it had a certain fixing quality not altogether pleasant. Beside him Freegrace and Edward seemed drab in their old-fashioned knee breeches and pale silk stockings, the backs spotted with mud.
Freegrace introduced a cadaverous man with eyes like candles in a cave as Lennart Vogel, who had missed the last two meetings as he was traveling. He was Doortje Duquet’s only child, and so a cousin of Sedley Duke, James Duke’s hard-hearted father. After a cosseted and overeducated life, Lennart eventually came to Boston and made the acquaintance of his Duke relatives. No one was more fastidious in his dress and on this day he wore pearl-grey pantaloons buttoned four inches above the ankle over white silk stockings, his shoes the merest slippers, replaced every fortnight. He had made himself into an indispensable walking encyclopedia of figures, trends and innovations affecting the timber trade. His greatest value, Edward whispered to James, lay in his fluent command of seven languages. Lennart had another side. For two months every year he put away his town clothes, donned heavy bush pants and logging boots and went into the woods, sometimes with an Indian guide. He said he was fishing and visiting subcontractors’ logging camps. He seemed unusually cheerful when he returned to Boston.