Surveying the damage in the room, the badly shaken Augustus Slade, known as ’Gustus by his younger, vexing but good-hearted brother, set upright a cushioned chair, and an overturned table; as servants scrambled to set things right, he took note of a broken Wedgwood plate on the carpet, and a broken cup; spilled tea; a scattering of crumbs and bits of muffins, and cubes of brown sugar; and, his shrewd lawyer’s eye falling upon a curious legal-looking document crested with the family coat of arms, he deftly pocketed it with the intention of examining it in private. If it proved pertinent to the situation, Augustus thought, he would certainly turn it over to the Township authorities, in time.
THUS, THE INEXPLICABLE reversal of fates at Wheatsheaf, to which I have given the title The Wheatsheaf Enigma. For no historian has ever satisfactorily explained it—not Hollinger, not Croft-Crooke, not A. D. W. Maybrick—and not I.
“SOLE LIVING HEIR OF NOTHINGNESS”
Why, you are very naughty! You are breaking your mother’s heart.”
She’d sent away Nanny that she might take a mother’s pleasure in bathing her baby, and putting him to bed for his afternoon nap; and was now a little anxious at his fretfulness. Indeed, she spoke sharply, giving the blue-painted ceramic baby’s tub a rap of her knuckles.
Baby Terence, winking and grimacing at his mother, only feigned obedience, for, when Amanda bent over him again, to soap him gently with a sponge, the little fellow resumed his energetic kicking, and more bathwater was splashed onto Amanda’s dress, quite soaking her apron.
“Oh! Terence. You are very naughty.”
Terence Wick FitzRandolph was but a few months old—(was he?)—yet had grown apace; and must have now weighed somewhere in the vicinity of twenty pounds. The contours of his fleshy-soft baby’s body had begun to lengthen, and become angular; the miniature genitals, which his mother tried not to stare at, and to touch as minimally as possible, had decidedly grown. And Terence’s skin-tone was decidedly of a hue just perceptibly not entirely Caucasian.
“Poor Edgerstoune! He would be so abashed. And yet—it is all innocent . . .”
Amanda had not inquired into her family background, in detail; for she would not have wanted to raise suspicion among the relatives. Yet it would not have surprised her if, in the previous century, or even in the century preceding, there had been a “mixing” of races—“An Indian princess, it may have been. Surely, no mere commoner.”
Amanda’s paternal family, descended from the revered Mathers of Plymouth Colony, was large, sprawling, and very certainly “heterogeneous”; and her maternal family, the Proxmires, originally of the Rhode Island colony, had partly emigrated to the western frontier, prior to returning to the East, to establish roots in Wilmington, Delaware.
Of Edgerstoune’s family, the FitzRandolphs—Amanda knew less. Yet this too was an old, sprawling family descended from Puritans who’d been admonished to increase, and multiply.
The Count had cautioned Amanda, motherhood might not be for her; in the intense emotions of motherhood, there might be peril; she was “yet a young woman, a widow” and “perhaps not fully a mother.” The Count had pointed out that infants are by nature very “selfish”—having but a limited awareness of the adults who surround them, and nothing like respect or genuine feeling. “It is all appetite. It is appetite that must be fed.”
Amanda protested that she loved little Terence, though he was a difficult, colicky baby; and she meant to be a very devoted mother, as all of Princeton would see.
“Adoring your baby is all very fine, dear Mrs. FitzRandolph,” the Count said, “but disciplining him is something more demanding.”
This was true. Adoration came easily, and discipline very hard. And lately, Terence seemed less adorable—for his sweet blue gaze, formerly reserved for her alone, now leapt from object to object as if attracted by sheer movement and novelty. And now it appeared that Terence’s dimpled baby smiles, which had afforded Amanda nearly as much pleasure as nursing itself, could be summoned by anyone—a visitor, the Irish nanny Brigit who crooned to him in Gaelic. (Amanda wasn’t so sure she quite approved of that: crooning to her baby in a foreign, antiquated language that was known to be, in British circles, the language of resistance.) Yet more distressing to his mother, Terence frequently lapsed into one of his noisy “talking” spells in the company of his stuffed animals, with as much absorption as if he were “talking” with his mother. And he was naughty, unfailingly naughty, in his bath.
Where was Brigit? Almost, Amanda wanted to call her, and summon back the hearty Irish girl, who took not the slightest heed of baby’s noisy, fretful, and soiling ways, as Amanda did. For it seemed at such times a profound mystery to her that the squalling infant in the grayish soapy water was hers.
She had wanted to bathe him, tenderly; to dry him, and powder him, and dress him in his pretty baby-clothes; she had wanted to feed him mashed plums from his own silver spoon, and rock him against her bosom, and sing to him, and kiss him all over . . . But Terence did not seem to wish to cooperate.
As the Count said, Terence was spoiled; and it would only get worse, as he matured.
Amanda leaned over the tub, that smelled frankly of both soapy water and baby urine, to sing a little tune she’d learned from the Count, who’d sung it first in German, and then translated for her:
Who will take Baby Terence?
I, said the water deep.
Baby will float in his cradle boat
And I shall rock him to sleep.
But Baby Terence responded to this with a devilish baby-smirk, and a thrashing of his fat baby-legs, and a shriek that made Amanda’s hair stand on end, for she feared Brigit would hear, or one of the household staff, and come running.
The Count was dropping by at teatime, or so he had promised. She would be headachey and red-eyed and out of sorts; and her mother, who was also dropping by, would fuss over her, as Amanda hated her to do.
Not a fit mother—was that what Princeton was saying, of Amanda FitzRandolph?
“I will make them say otherwise. I will make him love me, and obey me.”
This declaration, on the very day of Amanda FitzRandolph’s “vanishing” from stately Mora House, at 44 Mercer Street: May 29, 1906.
“WITHIN THE HOUSE of the von Gneists,” the Count had told Amanda FitzRandolph, on one of their walks along the wide white beach at Sans Souci, “there is a tradition of the curse that is also a blessing; or, the blessing that is also a curse. I have no detailed knowledge of this tradition, except to know that it sets the von Gneists apart from others.” In a melancholy yet bemused tone the Count told his attentive American listener of ancient feuds between Romanians and Hungarians; “saintly men of God” slaughtered like beasts, by peasants; and tides of the Black Death, issued by a wrathful God, in punishment for such violations of nature. Seeing that Mrs. FitzRandolph shivered at his words, and bit her lower lip, the Count continued, in a more confiding voice, “The essence of the ‘curse’ seems to be that, as my deep happiness lies in the fact of my existing without volition, and viewing the world freed of all desire, so too does my sorrow lie in this: that I am a von Gneist, I am condemned, or if you wish, privileged, to see the world as little more than a screen of mere images, impressions, and possibilities, lacking all permanent substance; and lacking, as a result, the ‘hooks and barbs’ that ensnare a man’s soul. It is said, the selfless love of a woman can ‘save’ the accursed von Gneist, and yet, how painful for me, to feel desires, but rarely desire; and of course, very rarely love.”
Amanda lowered her eyes, deeply moved; grateful for the fine-spun chiffon veil that partly obscured her face, to protect it from the powerful rays of the Bermuda sun. She murmured that she understood, of course—though truly, she did not.
“In addition,” the Count said, “I’ve found myself in permanent exile: a solitary wanderer through the continents. I am forced to accept the generous charity of my American friends, which I can only hope to repay, someday; for of course the von Gneists
are penniless, and near-extinct. I must wander until the curse is erased, or until I die—which may be the identical thing . . . Well, Mrs. FitzRandolph, I must not burden your youthful heart with such melancholy confidences.”
“And have you never been ‘in love,’ Count? Is that what you are saying?”
Gusts of sea-wind stirred Amanda’s hair beneath her wide-brimmed hat, and roused her spirits to speak daringly; for Edgerstoune, absorbed in golf with friends, was in another part of the island and nowhere near.
“It’s said that a von Gneist will be released from his ‘blessing’ if another human being should love him wholly, and unquestioningly, above all the world and Heaven,” the Count said, frowning, “which is to say not only above all living things but above God as well. And with the willingness, if required, to sacrifice them. A single hour of this selfless love, a single minute, would erase the curse on my brow; and restore my soul to me, that I might love in turn, and feel such emotions as pity, need, yearning, interest, as human beings normally feel. I must confess, my dear Amanda,” the Count said, now in a trembling voice, “that it was the promise of America that drew me here; for you are all young, having so little history of your own, and that a crude history, lacking culture; Americans seem willing to expend precious energies with the vitality of youth, as if such energies are infinite. The Old World envies such innocence, and thrills to it; and hopes that lasting blood-ties might be forged . . . Before sailing from Liverpool I dared to think, ‘Even a von Gneist might seek salvation there.’ ”
At this, Amanda was so stricken with emotion that she could not speak, and stood rooted to the spot; until the Count took her arm, to twine through his, and resumed their walk along the beach, in a loop that would bring them back to the white-latticed porch at Sans Souci where Mark Twain in resplendent white was holding court to admirers; sighting the romantic couple, Mr. Twain lifted his cigar in a signal of—recognition? approbation? camaraderie?
“Bienvenue, mes amis! C’est la vie ici—oui?”
Forty hours later, Edgerstoune FitzRandolph lay dead on the wide white beach behind Sans Souci, the heedless victim of a lethal sting on the bare heel of his right foot.
SINCE AMANDA FITZRANDOLPH’S secret journal, known among my research materials as the Fleur-de-lis notebook, is undated, and haphazardly arranged, as well as, as I’ve noted previously, lamentably unreliable, the historian can only conjecture as to the probable duration of the “affair” between Mrs. FitzRandolph and Count English von Gneist: it could not have been long, for the lovers first came together, I believe, in Bermuda; in that place of lax, Lotus-Land manners, far from the rigors of Princeton, New Jersey; and it ended, or rather culminated, on the day of this narrative, which is May 29, 1906.
So hallucinatory, scattered, lurid and implausible are entries in Amanda FitzRandolph’s journal, approaching this date, this historian has been sparing in his consultation of it; and though rival historians will protest, and think my procedure unprofessional, I have already committed the offensive document to the flames.
The claims of historical accuracy must yield to claims of common decency.
In any case, it was in late April that Count von Gneist and Mrs. FitzRandolph seem to have “coupled”; according to Amanda’s journal, this “coupling” was not by day but wholly by night as she lay in her bed sleeping and helpless. (Excised portions of the journal seem to suggest that these nocturnal visitations from the Count may have predated Bermuda, and took place as Amanda lay beside her heedlessly slumbering husband; this is even more disagreeable, I think.) Amanda would wake from disturbing dreams to see the gentleman’s spectral, or immaterial, form in the darkened bedroom; at times, she witnessed his figure easing through a wall, as if the wall were but mist. With none of the gallantry for which the Count was so admired by day, he seized Amanda by the shoulders, lifted her and pressed his mouth against hers, greedily; ignoring his terrified victim’s struggle to escape him, he kissed her as he liked until Amanda grew so short of breath she passed away in a faint.
And how bewildering to awaken hours later, in a flood of sunshine, to discover her heart beating languidly against her ribs, and her lacy nightclothes twisted and damp.
So dazed was Amanda, after the return to Princeton, in the first phase of her young widowhood, and so uncertain whether the Count had “really” been present at her bedside, or whether she’d only dreamt him, she lay abed for hours; with little appetite for breakfast brought to her on a tray; feeling a stab of guilt, that the household staff, like friends, relatives, and West End neighbors, believed it was Edgerstoune she was mourning.
“Poor lady!”—(Amanda happened to overhear one of the servants remark to another)—“seems like her soul just ain’t in her body, but with him.”
By day, when they were likely to be in the company of others, the Count never hinted at his nocturnal behavior. Nor would anyone have guessed, seeing him speaking with Mrs. FitzRandolph, as he spoke with other Princeton friends, that there was anything secret between them; anything clandestine, still less lewd. For the Count was a gentleman of impeccable manners, as his grooming and his clothing were flawless; and Amanda FitzRandolph, one of the most gracious and upstanding of West End ladies.
Yet, it was noted how the two—(one would not have called them a “couple,” exactly)—played together at bridge, as partners; and one evening at Drumthwacket, Amanda astonished the gathering by singing, as the Count accompanied her on the piano, a song no one had ever heard before, in the widow’s clear sweet soprano voice:
Es flustern und sprechen die Blumen
Und schau’n mitleidig mich an:
“Sei unserer Schwester nicht böse,
Du trauriger, blasser Mann!”
It should be noted that Amanda had long been one of the most admired amateur singers in Princeton. Prior to her marriage to Edgerstoune FitzRandolph, at the age of twenty-one—(Edgerstoune had been thirty-four)—her sweet if somewhat wavering soprano voice had been much in demand at weddings, funerals, and other celebrations. Though her throat was not strong, and her delivery sometimes hesitant, and she betrayed, in more exacting compositions, a faulty middle voice, Amanda had been encouraged by her voice teachers, and was capable of much expression in her singing; and looked very striking with wide-spaced gray eyes, and slightly snubbed nose, and pert rosebud lips, honey-brown hair piled upon her head in glamorous Gibson Girl style.
It was fortunate, how all of Princeton could not know how often, and with increasing bestiality, the Count “had his way” with Amanda, by night; taking no pity on her, and responding to her whimpers of distress and pain with a cruel laugh—the very antithesis of the Count by day.
“Doesn’t he remember? Is it—a sort of game? But what is my role, and how am I to respond?”—so Amanda queried herself, perplexed and ashamed; though recalling how, in the most recent dream, her arm had slipped about the Count’s neck as if with a volition of its own.
ONE NIGHT, in late spring, when a heady aroma of wild rose suffused the air, the Count came for Amanda—“My Mandy!”—and led her from her bedroom through the darkened streets of the West End, and to another part of Princeton less known to her; here, there were lanes and back-alleys, and small houses set side by side, like dutiful and unsuspecting pupils. His fingers were closed about her slender wrist, she could not have wrested from him if she’d tried. It seemed that the two were “running”—leaping and bounding as if weightless—in close pursuit of their prey, which the Count had sighted: a youth of about fourteen, with a very dark skin, like ebony; a startled white smile, or grimace; and eyes protuberant as the eyes of a panicked pony. This, on lower Witherspoon Street, several blocks below the cemetery; on a night of intermittent moonlight and shadows; like big cats they stole upon the youth, soundless; like cats, cuffing and pummeling and clawing him, as he cried out in terror. The Count drove the boy at Mandy, who drove him back to the Count, with the most deft motions of her hands; then, with a muffled cry, the Count fell upon their pr
ey, sinking his teeth deep in the ebony-dark throat, and deeper yet. The Count reached out to seize his mistress’s wild windblown hair, and to tug her to him, that she too might embrace the now paralyzed youth, and suffer the paroxysm of gratified desire.
“We will not leave him, I think, for others to find, and release more hysteria on the community. We will hide him, in plain sight”—so the Count said, laughing; with the result that the fiendish couple dragged the youth’s thin body to a culvert, and to a drainage pipe, into which they stuffed it, and hid the opening with debris fallen from trees.
Astonishing to Mandy that on such nights, she did not repel the Count, but acquiesced to him, at once; and that her mouth should so instinctively and greedily suck, with the abandon of her baby at her breast; or that the swallowing of hot blood, which would certainly have provoked fits of vomiting in her by day, should so please her at night.
“It is only a dream of course. Only a dream”—Mandy placated herself. “In a little while, I will be awake in my own bed.”
IT WAS IN the morning of May 29, in the nursery at Mora House, that the Irish girl Brigit returned earlier than expected, to discover her mistress in the act of—(could it be?)—struggling with her infant son in the baby-tub, to push his head under-water.
“Mistress! No!”—Brigit rushed to the baby’s aid and, in the exigency of the moment, dared to pull Mrs. FitzRandolph’s hands away, with the result that the thrashing baby emerged from the water shrieking at a deafening volume. Amanda turned sharply to the nanny saying that Terence had been naughty, and she had been disciplining him, as she had failed to discipline him in the past, with unfortunate results.
The Accursed Page 56