Monarch Manor

by Maureen Leurck

  Amelia and Henry had met in Chicago, at a gala in 1915 at the Art Institute. Charles Hutchinson was the founder, and the Hoppe family were guests at the opening celebration. Amelia had wandered around the party, her deep green gown with black beading swishing against her legs as she took in the paintings. She had plans to sneak out later with Eleanor and go to a club, long after their parents were asleep, and she counted the minutes. She stopped in front of a painting of water lilies and read the plaque.

  “ ‘Claude Monet, donated by Mr. and Mrs. Martin Ryerson.’ Of course,” she muttered. The Ryersons never stopped talking about their fabulously talented artist friend. She was about to walk away when she overheard the conversation of a group behind her.

  “Had they not been on the water before? I’m sure any one of us would have seen right away that the ship was at capacity and gone back to the dock. If only they had been paying more attention,” a woman behind her said.

  Amelia’s skin pricked with annoyance. She knew exactly what the woman was talking about: the Eastland disaster from earlier in the year, when a ship meant to take Western Electric employees on a company picnic had capsized in the river and more than eight hundred people died, just feet from the dock.

  She turned around and approached the group, fueled by the champagne she had gulped down out of boredom. She didn’t recognize any of the two women and two men, except for one of the men, who had light hair and dark eyes. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice sharp. “But I believe we should be expressing our sympathies, and offering prayers for those poor people, rather than questioning their decisions.” She slowly looked around the group. The two women pressed their lips together in annoyance but didn’t dare say anything back. One of the men, already bored with the conversation, surveyed the crowd behind her. The other man, the one who looked familiar, smiled.

  “I couldn’t agree more. Thank you for saying it,” he said. When she didn’t return his smile, he leaned forward slightly. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He straightened up and nodded his head slightly. “Henry Cartwright, and I’m friends with your brother-in-law, George. We met at his wedding to Eleanor.”

  Amelia knitted her brows together and frowned. “I believe all of you drank enough that evening that it was hard to tell anyone apart, not that I would have wanted to.”

  Henry threw his head back and laughed, startling the rest of his group. “You’re right about that.” His eyes sparkled as he smiled broadly at her. “Any chance you would care for some company while walking around the exhibits tonight?”

  She was about to say no, that she was just fine on her own, but she was tired of being alone at events like those and tired of having people ask when she might get married. Over and over and over again.

  Henry wasn’t Matthew, but no one was. Matthew was off on his grand adventures, trying to satiate his unquenchable thirst for travel, each time asking her to join. Until the past year, when he had stopped asking, already knowing the answer. She never told anyone how much she still wanted to be asked.

  By May of that year, she and Henry were engaged, and the wedding planning only allowed for a few summer visits to Monarch Manor. She saw Matthew once, when she introduced him to Henry.

  “He’s a fine man,” Matthew had whispered in her ear before she boarded the steam yacht. His hand brushed her shoulder, sending a wave of longing and nostalgia down her arm. It was her last moment to change her life. She could have stopped, stayed on the dock with Matthew, and let Henry return to the city. Instead, she turned and boarded the yacht. She knew if she stayed with Matthew he would once again ask her to join him. And she would say no, that Chicago and Lake Geneva were her homes.

  He would, in turn, stay with her and give up his dreams of traveling and exploring the world. She couldn’t imagine having to face him every day of her life, knowing he gave up everything for her. Knowing that he turned away from the plans he whispered to her during those childhood summers as they hid from the nannies, sweaty and covered in bug bites by the pond. She could never repay that debt. She might not be enough for him, and that was worse than never having him at all.

  And so she became destined to a life of battles with Margaret, but at least anger was something she could process. Disappointment, letting Matthew down, was something she knew she couldn’t.

  Margaret, however, proved to be a more formidable enemy than she could have ever imagined.

  In the kitchen, Margaret’s smile grew larger. She lifted her eyebrows. “Good thing I have taken proper measures to ensure he won’t embarrass us anymore.”

  Amelia’s nose pricked with tears as she faced her, and her hands shook as she swallowed hard, again thankful that John didn’t hear what was said. She straightened her spine, and with fire burning in her eyes she said, “It is you who should be embarrassed. You and your friends. He’s an innocent child, and you are—” She stopped, searching for the words she had so desperately wanted to say for so long.

  Margaret crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.

  “Beneath my daughter. Beneath all of us.” Mary Hoppe appeared in the doorway. Margaret turned in surprise, her arms dropping to her sides when she saw her.

  “Pardon?” Margaret said.

  Amelia’s heart thumped against her pink dress, and her ears rang with tension. She had never seen her mother so much as raise her voice to anyone other than her family or staff members. Certainly not in a social situation and certainly not to someone as powerful as Margaret Cartwright. Margaret may not have grown up with wealth, but she had certainly made the most of her social standing. And Mary had just said the worst thing possible to her.

  Mary looked past a frozen Margaret, to Amelia. “How is John?” She walked forward, her arm brushing against the skirt of Margaret’s sparkling gown. Margaret leaned away, pressing her hands on the oak door frame.

  Mary bent down to John’s level and tweaked his chin. He smiled in response, still pressing his body against Amelia. Mary stood, her back straight. “They are almost ready to release the lanterns over the lake. Come.” She looked down and held her hand out to John and nodded. He slowly took her hand, and Mary led them through the doorway, side by side, so that Margaret had to jump out of the way again.

  Amelia looked back and saw Margaret shaking in anger, unable to speak, like a scorned child. She felt a wave of sympathy for her, for how sad and miserable she must be on the inside. For what she likely said to herself in quiet times: You are not good enough. You will never be good enough. No one loves you. Amelia had never once believed no one loved her, from her parents, to her sisters, to Henry.

  To Matthew.

  She knew Margaret had never felt that kind of love and it had darkened her heart and destroyed her soul.

  Down at the lakefront, the guests gathered under the rapidly darkening sky. In the time since she went inside, Amelia saw that the waiters had lit the torches on the edge of the party. The flames danced across the lake, reflecting back up to the house, illuminating the front yard. The air smelled of fire and lake water, with a hint of sweetness from the roasted marshmallow station beginning to assemble just outside the porch.

  Mary clutched John’s hand as she marched across the lawn, her head held high in defiance. Amelia followed behind them, weaving in between the guests. When she passed Judge N. C. Sears, swaying slightly while animatedly telling a story about the most recent trial he had presided over, she rolled her eyes and wondered what the city voters would think of him, as he was labeled the “only honest judge in Cook County.” As she continued on, her back stiffened ever so slightly and she heard the ever-present swish of Margaret’s skirts behind her.

  The fabric sounded like a warning to Amelia, a reminder of all that wretched woman had planned. Of everything she had done. Of everything Henry had empowered her to do.

  Of his betrayal and how he had changed their lives.

  When she reached the lakefront, Amelia felt Margaret push past her, to her husband’s side, next to Simeon and Elizabeth Ch
apin. She didn’t dare glance back at Amelia or at her grandson. Amelia joined her mother and John at the edge of the lake, next to Eleanor and her family. Emily grabbed John by the hand and led him close to her, bringing him into their circle, while Eleanor gave her the most imperceptible head nod.

  I see you. I see John.

  “Let’s begin by making our wishes, and then we can each release a lantern. With any luck, our wishes will find their way home,” Conrad said, his voice booming across the lake, amplified by too many sidecars.

  One by one they released the lanterns, handed to them by a worker who lit the inside of each paper bag filled with air, and the lanterns floated up in the sky, over the water, creating a cluster of floating orbs high above the tree line. Each lantern held the wishes and dreams of the person who released it, lazily floating upward. Surrounding them, Amelia could feel the presence of all those wants and requests, pressing down on her shoulders. They hung like fairy lights around them, flickering on people’s faces and reflecting on the water.

  When it was Margaret’s turn, she held the lantern in her hand for a moment longer than the others, the flames reflecting against her stony face. Amelia’s blood ran cold as she suspected what John’s own grandmother wished for, for what she was likely thinking about him. It repeated through Amelia’s head as though she had actually heard it, a nightmare that Margaret had found a way to wish true:

  I wish to never see him again.

  CHAPTER 20

  ERIN

  On the Thursday afternoon after my mother and I closed up the house in Powers Lake, I sank down onto a bar stool at the Lake View Tavern and ordered a glass of wine. The sports bar was mostly empty, save for a few other depressed-looking souls scattered around the bar, wearily glancing at a college football game.

  As I took my first sip of the sticky sweet house white wine, I felt Traci brush my elbow and sink down next to me.

  “Hey there. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare.” She took a quick glance around the bar. “And sorry again. This place usually isn’t this dead.”

  I had called Traci two nights before, after a disastrous school meeting that left me feeling bruised and battered. I asked if we could meet for coffee, and she quickly agreed . . . but only if it was for “real” drinks.

  Without her asking, a large draft beer slid in front of her, and she took a long sip before she turned to me on her stool, hands clasped on the bar.

  “Nice and cool out, huh?” she said as she surveyed my damp forehead.

  I wiped my face. “Heat index of eighty today, I think. This has to be the hottest fall on record.” I fanned my cheeks with my hand. The meteorologists were already predicting that the upcoming winter would be cold and snowy, the typical mood swings of Mother Nature in the Midwest.

  “So, how’s everything going? I know you said the meeting with school didn’t exactly give you a warm and fuzzy feeling,” she said as she jiggled a charm bracelet around her wrist.

  “Ha. Nope. Understatement of the year,” I said. I had called the meeting to try to brainstorm ways to help Will be more successful, to help him be more regulated and calm throughout the day. Every suggestion that I had come prepared to offer had already been put in place and was failing to a spectacular degree. He was spending most of the day in the sensory room, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself down. Each time he achieved equilibrium, the teachers and aides would try to put academic work in front of him, and then he would melt down again. It became obvious that while everyone was trying everything possible and truly seemed to want him to be successful, Will was still incredibly stressed and wasn’t learning anything.

  “Well, I know you aren’t going to want to hear this, as it provides absolutely nothing in the way of concrete advice, but here goes: The problem with school is school.” She tucked a strand of long, dark hair behind her ear. “School will always be a square hole, and it will always be a challenge. Point-blank. Some districts might work more with you, on shaping that square to be more round for your kid, but it will always be a square, just in another name.”

  I nodded slowly and chewed on the side of my lip. I knew this. It was becoming more evident each day. “So, what then?”

  She took a long swallow of her drink and wiped the corner of her mouth. “For Chris, it was Lakewood Academy that made all the difference. A school designed for kids just like him. A school that was made to be round in the first place, if you know what I mean.” She slowly turned to look at me. “I can see what you’re thinking: Is it giving up?”

  I opened my eyes wide and twisted my mouth into a frown. After a long pause, I said, “Okay . . . is it?”

  She laughed. “It sure as shit feels like it in the beginning, I can tell you that much. Look, I’ve been where you’re at. We thought Chris would just need a few years of speech therapy. Oh, now just a few years of special ed. Oh, just a few years in this autism classroom. And so on. Am I right?”

  I sighed and didn’t answer as I hung my head, tracing a finger along my glass.

  “I thought so. But at some point, we have to face who our kids are. Sure, there are kids who are the one-in-a-million kids. But I didn’t have one of those. So you try and figure out what they need, not what you want them to have. And that brought us to Lakewood. The first week he was there”—she paused and looked to the ceiling, smiling—“oh Lord, I had never seen him so calm, so happy.”

  I nodded. “That’s wonderful. Will is . . . not happy. At all.” I tried to imagine him leaving for school each day, his backpack on, walking into the building without having to be dragged toward the door. Yet the idea of him leaving public school still seemed like such an extreme thought, like we were taking steps backward.

  “What about your husband? What does he think?” she said.

  I smiled. “Not exactly on board.” I had brought up the idea of Lakewood again to Luke, after he got home from work the other night. I hadn’t even gotten out the entire sentence before he shook his head. “Will can do this; I know he can,” was his response. “It’s the school’s fault for failing him.” When he said it, I realized that while I used to feel the same way, I now believed that it didn’t matter whose fault it was. The school was trying, but our biggest concern should be making things easier on Will. And maybe Lakewood was it.

  “Well, you better get him on board if you are considering going the therapeutic route. The tuition is an arm and a leg, and you need both signatures for that second mortgage.” She laughed but stopped quickly when she saw my face.

  “What about the district? I read that some districts will pay for the school,” I said as I took another sip of wine and winced.

  Traci gave me a sympathetic look and patted my arm. “Some will. I can tell you that yours won’t. Or at least, they won’t without a fight involving lawyers. He would probably have to be allowed to fail for another year before you could push them.”

  “Another year? That’s ridiculous,” I said as I rubbed my head. None of us could continue on the same path for a year. It would kill all of us.

  “Welcome to the world of special education,” Traci said as she lifted her beer glass and tipped it to her lips. “Where almost all the options are shitty ones.”

  In the parking lot, before we got into our cars, she turned to me and said, “I’ve been where you are, and I know how hard it is. But there is another shore; you just can’t see it yet. But it’s there. And it’s not perfect, but it’s good. There’s a lot of good things there. Different things than you probably had planned. Once you get used to that idea, everything else will come easier.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded, her words ringing in my ears. I waited until I got into my car before I let the tears flow. Gratitude, loss, and guilt all mixed together as I sat in my piping-hot car and cried until I couldn’t breathe.

  Other parents with children Will’s age were shopping for markers from the school supply list and picking out pristine polos and khaki shorts for their children to wear on their first day of real
school. There would be pictures and hugs and special treats.

  We would experience all of that with Charlotte. But Will, likely, would miss out in one form or another—even though I hoped against hope it would be different.

  After the twins were born, I had thought about their first day of school. They would have matching backpacks and Will would wear a cute button-down shirt, cargo shorts, and loafers. Charlotte would have a dress in the same color as Will’s shirt and black mary janes. They would be nervous to go to school but excited to make new friends, since they spent most of their time together. I would have tears in my eyes, knowing how much I’d miss them, but I’d make sure to make a special dinner for them that night. They’d have a bunch of new friends and learn how to read sight words.

  I wiped the tears from my face and took a long, ragged breath and turned on the air-conditioning. I had to let that all go. Traci was right; it was time to make decisions based on what was, not what might be, no matter how painful.

  I held the image of a smiling Will walking into school in my head as I drove home to hug him. Yet as I reached the driveway my phone rang with a 262 area code.

  “You are never going to believe what I just found.” Gerry’s words ran together like melted ice cream and chocolate syrup.

  He didn’t wait for me to ask. “It’s a letter from Louisa, your great-great-aunt, to her mother, Eleanor. My friend at the Milwaukee Historical Society has the original. It doesn’t appear Louisa ever mailed it, as she died in childbirth about a week later, and her family must have donated it along with some of her other things at some point.”

  “Louisa? So that would be Emily, my great-grandmother’s sister? And Amelia’s niece?” I said as I sat back in the driver’s chair, my brain mentally drawing a picture of the family tree, searching for Louisa.