by Staci Hart
The dogs finally unjammed the doorway. Mrs. Ferrars eyed them with a level of disgust, masked ineptly by that cruel smile of hers. And as she moved out of the way, I caught sight of a third member of their party and wondered where in the world he had come from.
He was tall and dark, his face kind and smile quiet with eyes that sparked intelligently under his brow. I determined his age to be far too old for me, but when I looked over at Elle, a smile of my own graced my lips as I noted he wouldn’t at all be too old for her. And by the way she was looking at him, I thought she might have figured the same.
Introductions went around. Mr. Ferrars had a handshake like a cowboy, strong and curt, while Mrs. Ferrars’s handshake reminded me of a dead fish, cold and floppy and inanimate.
“And this,” Susan said proudly, “is Ward Ferrars, their son.”
My jaw would have popped open and hit the ground if I hadn’t had it affixed into a smile. He shook hands with everyone in greeting, all while I dissected his appearance, trying to figure out how they had produced him. But I could see it, if I looked closely. His eyes were the color and shape of his mother’s though with a merriment I doubted hers had ever possessed. He was a similar height and build as his father, and on closer inspection, I could see in the lines of his nose and jaw where the two men were virtually genetic copies, separated only by age.
I also noted that he greeted Elle last and lingered for a second too long.
This was maybe the highlight of the whole ordeal. My sister had had exactly one boyfriend, years ago. And the thought of her with someone so dashing—it really was the only word I could think to describe him—was enough to set my imagination skipping into the future to name their children for them (Marianne Margaret Ferrars for the girl and Fredrick Fitzwilliam Ferrars for the boy, respectively. Fitz for short.)
We were led into the living room for a drink before dinner, Uncle John and Mr. Ferrars—Frank—sojourning to the cocktail tray to pour scotch with Ward trailing behind them, leaving the women to sit in the living room.
“Emily and the girls have been New Yorkers for only a week—” Susan started jovially, but Fanny cut her off.
“Yes, we were supposed to have dinner ages ago to celebrate,” she said coolly, eyeing Mama. “I trust you’ve been able to…adjust.”
Color smudged Mama’s cheeks, her head held high. “Yes, thank you,” was all she said, not bothering to explain herself.
“Good. I can’t understand why you all didn’t fly. Three days in a car seems…excessive.”
I opened my mouth to give her something to consider, but she kept talking. “You were the one in the car accident, yes?”
My eyes narrowed at her intrusive lack of manners. “No, the wheelchair is just a prop,” I popped, not even realizing I’d said it until it left my mouth.
I put on a smile, as if it had been a joke.
Fanny laughed, the sound tight and awkward. “Yes, well, I’m sorry for the loss of your husband. It must have been a shock to lose him so suddenly and at such a young age.”
Mama looked like a storm in a bottle. “Yes, it was.”
“And then to have to take charity from family?” She shook her head and said with an unbelievable air of condescension, “You’re very fortunate to have such a generous brother.”
Susan wasn’t smiling anymore. “It’s not really about generosity as much as it’s about right and wrong. Having the Daschles here has been nothing but a pleasure and a joy.” The words rose and fell with cheery inflection and a warning edge.
Fanny smiled, lips together and curling at the corners. “Of course.”
“I think we could all use a drink. John!” Susan called over her shoulder a little too loudly. “Would you mind pouring us wine?”
He nodded.
“Good. That will be good,” she said as she settled back in.
The conversation momentarily lulled, something that never happened in Susan’s company. Mine either, but my quick tongue was too shocked to even gather up a response. This was probably a good thing. I doubted anything I had to say would be in any way acceptable.
The men joined us a moment later with wine for everyone but me and Meg, carrying the conversation back into familiar territory. Uncle John was happily in his element at his friend’s side, and when Susan looked up at him, her face touched in adoration and joy, I understood why she put up with Fanny; it made John happy.
Good manners are made of small sacrifices.
With that reminder, I resolved to keep my mouth shut.
A half hour later, I realized this might actually be impossible, though keeping my mouth full helped.
Fanny was sure to remark on dinner with an unwelcome abundance of deprecating compliments. The meal was quaint, she remarked, barely touching her steak which she noted was gamy, smiling while she cut off delicate slivers to slip past her thin lips. The wine was very stout, she was sure to say, and from a vineyard she hadn’t heard of, though she was certain she was familiar with all the good wineries in La Rioja.
All the while, I chewed my steak—which was delicious by the way and was one of the best meals I’d had in several years, Monte Cristo included—doing my very best to keep quiet.
Susan kept Fanny on the safest of topics, steering her around with the mastery of a lion tamer. That probably gave Fanny too much credit. As much as she wanted to be majestic, she was more like a cold, slick python. No, not even that. She wasn’t quiet or clever enough to be a snake. Maybe a rabid poodle, coiffed with a ridiculous haircut meant to make her look fancy. Because it was painfully clear that Fanny thought she was fancy. But it was hard to take her seriously when she was foaming at the mouth.
My only respite from Fanny was watching Elle and Ward.
It was almost imperceptible—the stolen glances, the inclination to look at each other when they laughed. I hoped beyond hope that something would come of it.
John and Frank took over the conversation, reminiscing about their college days and running the Valentin Fabre magazine empire.
The history of the magazine was largely unknown to me; we never spoke of this part of the family, and it wasn’t until I was a teenager that I’d ever even known the broad-stroke details of that side of my family. I listened, enraptured.
“My grandfather was the son of French aristocrats, a family that immigrated to New York a generation before. He grew up in Manhattan at the turn of the century. Harvard Medical wasn’t for him; what he adored was marketing. When he got his first job as an advertising executive for Ladies’ Weekly, he turned it around and enjoyed doing it so much, he bought his first magazine—Nouvelle—with the help of his parents’ fortune. And when he built that one up, he bought another. Then another. Twenty years in, he owned fifteen magazines, each of them still thriving today.
“My mother—your grandmother,” he said with a nod in our direction, “was his only child, and he groomed her to take over for him when he retired. It was where she met your grandfather.”
Mama sat silently, eating with her eyes down.
Meg launched into a string of questions, and everyone laughed.
“Too many questions for a full plate,” Elle said gently, redirecting the conversation to something safer, for Mama’s sake. “It must be very exciting, working in the magazine business,” she said to no one in particular.
“It’s long work and a great deal of stress,” John said, “but it helps to run it all with people I enjoy so much.”
Frank held up his glass, tipping it first to John, then to Ward. “Hear, hear.”
Fanny spoke while they were occupied drinking “It’s the legacy that I find so exciting. Having something to pass on, like Frank will pass on to Ward.”
Susan’s face betrayed her annoyance, but Fanny was too self-absorbed to notice. Neither of my cousins had gone into the magazine business, and the dig was heard all too clearly.
“Ward is our shining star,” she continued, beaming. It was the first genuine emotion I’d seen from her
other than general discontent or condescension. “He’s currently the associate publisher at Nouvelle. We have grand plans for him, don’t we, Frank?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes,” Frank answered absently.
Ward gave Elle an apologetic look as Fanny rattled on.
“He’s just simply amazing at it. They say they’ve never seen anyone quite like him, and I’d have to agree. Wouldn’t you?” she asked no one as she speared a green bean, which she insisted on calling haricot verts, and forked it into her horrible mouth.
“Do you enjoy it?” Elle asked him once Fanny’s mouth was full.
Ward watched her with a light of surprise in his eyes, as if no one had ever asked him that so directly. “It…keeps me busy,” was his answer. “And what do you do?”
Elle blushed at that, looking down at her fork as she rolled a green bean away from her. “Oh, I—”
Susan brightened up and interrupted, as she so often did. “Oh! I nearly forgot! John, Elle was a secretary in Boerne; do you think we could place her at one of the magazines? I think she’d be quite an addition to your staff.”
John nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, of course. I’m sure we have something you could do, if you’d like.”
“Exactly what kind of secretarial work did you do in Boerne?” Fanny asked with her eyes on her fork, which politely stabbed another green bean. She glanced at Elle as she lifted her fork.
Elle’s hands fell to her lap, and I imagined she was twisting her fingers under the table, her voice gone a little soft. “I worked for a small insurance agency.”
Fanny hummed. “How charming. But I wouldn’t want you to overextend yourself, dear. The magazine is very busy. Things move quickly, and if you’re not prepared, I fear you’d be swept away.” She laughed—at least, I thought it was a laugh—an odd, successive intake of air, followed by a sound of mild amusement.
I set my fork down with a clank and glared, breaking my vow of silence. “Elle happens to be one of the most organized, composed women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She works tirelessly and thanklessly just for the sake of a job well done, and I honestly can’t think of a better person to nominate to handle such a busy environment.”
Fanny glared back at me.
“Thank you,” Elle started quietly, “but—”
“I was only stating the nature of the competitive, high-level work, so your sister could make a wise decision,” Fanny said, her eyes like fiery laser beams.
In that moment, I didn’t have a single wonder as to how she managed to steamroll her entire family.
Fortunately, I wasn’t part of her family.
“Oh, I think we all understood you quite well.”
Her mouth popped open in furious shock at that, but Susan laughed, a big, happy sound that I sensed was orchestrated.
“Maybe we could all use another glass of wine—Annie included.”
Elle was still staring down at her hands, and I endeavored to keep the spotlight on me.
“I’d love one,” I sang cheerily.
Mama didn’t think it was funny.
Frank chose the moment to speak up. “Elle, we’d love to have you at one of the magazines.” He completely ignored Fanny when her head swiveled on her neck to gape at him. “I’ve never known Susan to recommend anyone who wasn’t exactly what we needed. In fact, Ward just lost his executive assistant. Think you could come in Monday and take a look around? See if it interests you?”
“You can’t actually be serious!” Fanny hissed half under her breath as if we weren’t all sitting right there.
Frank looked at her like she was crazy. “Of course I’m serious. It’s not your concern, Francis.”
Her face somehow soured even more, but she shut up.
“Good!” Susan said.
No one asked Elle what she wanted, and I watched her, wishing she would meet my eyes so I could comfort her, but she was refolding her napkin with the focus of a Tibetan monk.
“So,” Susan started, “I don’t know if you all know, but Annie is quite the pianist. She played for us and was brilliant. I must say, she blew me away and down Fifth!”
Everyone looked at me with interest, and I smiled, fully prepared to tap-dance until Elle felt more like participating.
“Annie, you have to play for us. John! John, tell her how much you’d like to hear her!”
He chuckled and smiled at me. “Would you do us the honor?”
“Of course,” I answered.
Susan clapped her hands together and held them. “Oh, wonderful! I think we’re all quite through with dinner. Come, come, we’ll take dessert and coffee in the music room.”
We all stood, except Mama. Everyone’s eyes drifted to her for a simultaneous millisecond before shifting away. Regardless of the brevity, Mama saw it.
I motioned for Meg to take the wheelchair and hung back for Elle, taking her hand. In the shuffle, we’d been left in the back of the pack.
“That was awful,” I whispered. “Are you okay?"
Before she could answer, her gaze shifted to look past me. I followed her eyeline to find Ward.
He merged with us, his handsome face apologetic. “I’m sorry about my mother. I’d like to say she’s not always so…”
“Rude? Condescending? Snobbish?” I offered.
Elle pinched my arm. “Annie!”
But Ward laughed. “All of those things are true, and I’m sorry for each one.” He paused, his eyes moving to Elle. “But mostly, I’m sorry that no one asked you if you wanted to work at the magazine.”
I nearly sighed with thanks that someone else had noticed, keeping my thoughts to myself with some difficulty.
Elle didn’t answer right away. “I…I do want to find a job, and I did enjoy working as a secretary, very much. But…”
He waited for her to speak as we neared the music room where Susan was already arranging chairs and ushering everyone around. And on observing his patience and thoughtfulness, I decided I liked him very much.
“I have the same fears as your mother,” she finally said. “I don’t know if I can do the job well.”
“They say there’s only one way to find out,” he suggested with his lips turned up in a quiet smile. “If you’d be willing to try, I’d be willing to help. No strings; if you’re overwhelmed or unhappy, you can go without any hard feelings. What do you say?”
She brightened and blushed all at once. “I…I’d like that very much.”
At her answer, his smile opened up. “Monday morning then, at eight.”
She nodded, smiling back. “Thank you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a slight bow, stepping away when his mother called his name, motioning for him to come sit by her.
When Elle glanced at me, we both nearly broke out into a fit of giggles, our hands squeezing together once before I split off to head to the piano.
“What would y’all like to hear?” I asked as I sat.
Meg opened her mouth, but Elle whispered in her ear. Meg closed it again, looking none too pleased with having to keep quiet.
“Play something from Songs Without Words,” Mama said, her expression and tone encouraging.
I smiled at her. “I know just the thing, if it pleases y’all.”
Everyone nodded, except Fanny—hateful bitch that she was. But I couldn’t be bothered with her, not when I began to play Opus 19, No. 1. My right hand danced across the keys as my left played the slow melody, the gentle wave of the music rising and falling, the motion swaying my heart, swaying my body gently. I felt the music with an unfathomable depth, in a language I couldn’t verbalize, couldn’t translate in any way other than through my fingers on the keys.
And when my fingers stilled and I turned to look at the people in the chairs at my side, I found some level of their understanding on their faces, even Fanny, who looked almost soft. Mama’s cheeks were shining with tears, and Meg was tucked into Elle’s side, their faces rapt. Aunt Susan’s arm was hooked in her husband’s, th
eir fingers wound together, tears clinging to the edge of her lids.
“Should I play a little Billy Joel to lighten the mood?” I joked through my own tight chest.
A chuckle rolled through them.
“How about this?” I asked and launched into another Mendelssohn, a bouncing, lilting piece that seemed to lift everyone’s spirits. After that was Beethoven and a little Chopin.
And then I was ready for cake, which everyone else had already eaten.
When I stood, they rose with me, speaking at once.
Uncle John looked at me like his gears were turning in his brain but said nothing more than, “Congratulations,” did nothing more than smile and offer me a hug.
The hubbub died down, and when Mama mentioned she was tired, she and I excused ourselves, our evening was blissfully over.
We said goodnight to the Ferrars, leaving them with Susan and John for after dinner drinks.
Mama’s silent room felt like a sanctuary.
“Are you all right?” I asked after a moment as I slipped her nightgown over her head.
She sighed, threading her arms through the openings. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“That woman is horrible. I can’t believe Susan tolerates being in the same room as her, never mind inviting her into her home.”
“He’s John’s oldest friend, and they came up together, worked together all these years.”
“Did you know him?” I asked tentatively. “Before?”
She nodded, reaching for me when I bent to lift her. “Yes, we were all friends. Susan, too.”
I paused, considering my question. “Why didn’t you take John’s help? When your parents disinherited you, why didn’t you accept his offer?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. I hoisted her up to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her legs, the limp, useless things like exclamation points on her losses.
“It was easier to disappear, to lose myself in my life with your daddy in Texas, to pretend like everything before didn’t exist. Looking back only hurt me, and we didn’t need money. We had the store; Daddy had his workshop. We had you girls. We had each other.” The words trailed off, rough and pained. “It was just easier to cut ties than live half in two worlds. I chose one world—his world.”