Monarch Manor

by Maureen Leurck

  I watched him drive off and stared up at the school. There was no way we could ever come up with that kind of money, short of some kind of miracle. Yet I thought of Will, and him running away from school each morning, almost into traffic, and his unwillingness to even go inside, and couldn’t help but feel even more like a failure. Here was an option that might help him, that might be an answer that we had been searching for, and we couldn’t do it. The universe was dangling a carrot in front of my face and then snatching it away.

  How can we accept his fate, and not keep trying, not keep pushing? I thought as I got into my car. I realized my phone was still in my pocket as I sat down with a bump. I leaned over and pulled it out of my pocket and saw that I had two missed calls from Gerry and a text.

  The text read: Where are you? I have tried to call twice. I found something interesting and wanted to tell you directly. I’m about to walk into a town council meeting, so here goes: Margaret Cartwright—Amelia’s mother-in-law—registered John at a school for the “Deaf and Dumb” in nearby Bloomfield. The admission date was supposed to be June 1923, after the accident. Call me at your earliest convenience.

  Breathing quickly, I called Gerry back. His phone went straight to voice mail, and I threw my own down in frustration. I pulled out of the parking lot of Lakewood Academy, away from the unattainable best option, trying to wrap my mind around the possibility that John was alive after the accident.

  I gripped the steering wheel as I thought of my own decisions and how maybe Will’s and John’s lives intersected in more ways than I possibly could have imagined.

  CHAPTER 25

  AMELIA

  The Monarch Princesses moved away from the dock of the estate, rocking side to side in the lake waves. Amelia clutched John’s hand tighter as she tried to steady her breath.

  “Just a few waves, nothing to worry about,” she whispered to herself. She knew she couldn’t turn back and the dock was too far to stop everything that had already been put into motion.

  She closed her eyes tightly and thought, If only Henry were still here. If only he hadn’t betrayed us, willingly or not.

  Before she could stop the memory, she thought back to the day when everything had started: the day not only when she had had to say good-bye to Henry but also when she first saw the battle that was ahead.

  * * *

  At Henry’s funeral, Margaret Cartwright wore the same strand of pearls as she did to Amelia and Henry’s wedding. At the luncheon after the funeral at the Fourth Presbyterian Church, Amelia noticed the necklace on Margaret’s black silk shift, resting against her bony collarbone. Amelia had tightened her grip on John’s hand as they made their way up the stairs to the Cartwright home.

  She only noticed the necklace because Margaret had made it such a big moment when she showed it to her. “Someday, if you have a daughter, these will be passed down to her,” she had said as she tapped the white pearls. Amelia could see tiny diamonds in between each round gemstone. “Of course, if I had my own daughter, she would receive these, but instead . . .” Margaret had trailed off, each of them filling in a different blank. Amelia later heard her tell someone at the wedding that she had worn the pearls every time someone close to her had died. She called them her mourning pearls.

  Amelia didn’t remember much from the funeral luncheon, nor did she remember much from the funeral itself. All she could think of was the last time Henry was lucid enough to hold her hand and to look into her eyes as himself, rather than the shell of the person who he was in his final days. His hand was so weak in hers, yet he ran his thumb over the top of her hand, like he always did when he held it. Then he turned it over and pressed his forefinger in the center of her palm.

  “I will never leave you and John,” he had said, gasping for air, before another wet cough racked his body. She had kissed his hand and closed her eyes, holding his hand as his body convulsed.

  After that moment, he wasn’t himself. He could barely speak, and when he did, his mind had already moved on.

  The cough had started a few weeks before, just a slight rattle the morning after the Hutchinsons’ annual Christmas party. There had been the usual revelry of trees decorated with glittering ornaments and sparkling ribbons in every corner of their home, with the ladies’ gossiping about the attendance at Frances Hutchinson’s latest horticulture lecture at her home. The men, of course, drank too much and played billiards until the wee hours of the morning, their cigar smoke wafting underneath the closed pocket doors. Margaret, to no avail, again tried to win Frances’s favor, but being that she was a close friend of Mary’s through the Garden Club, she was firmly planted on the opposing side.

  “Just a bit too much indulging last night, I imagine,” he had said with a smile when she remarked the next morning that he looked pale. A week later, he could barely stand and the doctor said the word that they had been dreading: “tuberculosis.” It was a word that changed everything. The doctor encouraged her and John to move out of their home, hire nurses, and dismiss the servants for fear of spreading the virus.

  While Amelia heeded his advice on the staff, she stayed in the house, a white nurse’s mask her ever-present accessory, and had John stay on the other wing of the house with a nanny.

  One week later, Henry was gone, and all Amelia could think the first night she was alone was that he had broken his promise to never leave them. It would be the first of many betrayals, she would later discover.

  Yet at the funeral luncheon, as she sat at a table with John and her parents, she understood what it meant: He would never leave their hearts. Not that he wouldn’t die. No one could promise that. It was as inevitable as the freezing of the lake each winter, the waves crystallized in a half-moon shape before they finally surrendered to their icy fate.

  Amelia could still feel Henry’s hand in hers, and she looked down, flexing her fingers. She closed her eyes for a moment and wished more than anything that she would open them and he would be next to her, as he always had been. That he could right all of the wrongs he had left behind.

  When she opened them again and the stillness of the air with him gone began to close in on her, she quickly stood from the table, nearly knocking over a crystal water glass. “Excuse me,” she said in a strangled voice as she frantically tried to move her chair back and disentangle herself from the white tablecloth. Everyone at the table stared at her in fear, hoping she wouldn’t make a scene. Finally, a gloved waiter came over and quickly moved her chair back so she could walk off, out of the room of people who watched her with a mix of pity and relief. Pity that her life had turned into such a tragedy, first with her son, and now with her husband gone, and relief that it wasn’t them. That their life was just as charmed as it was when they woke up. They would get to fall asleep that night in the same bed, with the same dreams, same plans, same family and people around them, while Amelia didn’t have the luxury of having the same life, or an ordinary day again. She didn’t know if she would ever again have the peace of waking up in the morning and feeling hope.

  She stopped at a large sterling silver mirror outside the room, staring at herself, trying to will herself to take a deep breath. Calm down, and walk back inside, and show John your strength. Show all of them that you won’t break. That even this will not break you.

  “People are beginning to whisper,” Margaret said as she strode out of the room, her spine straight.

  Amelia didn’t respond, her hand on her stomach as it turned, at the sight of the pearls. “Funerals. You said you wear those only to funerals. Why did you wear them to my wedding?” Of course, she knew the answer.

  Margaret looked down in surprise and patted the pearls.

  “Why are you such a hateful woman? What is wrong with you? What did I ever do to you, other than to love your son, and to give you a grandson?” Amelia stepped forward, her eyes blazing, the emotions she had never allowed herself to express bubbling up through her. She pointed a finger in Margaret’s face, inches from her nose. “Tell me. Why
do you hate me so much?”

  Margaret raised her eyebrows and slowly clasped her hands in front of her. “We still have not discussed the plans for the fall. For John’s schooling.”

  Amelia’s blood ran cold. Tiny pricks of panic ran down her back. She took a step back, her heel wobbling. “I have my own plans for John. I have found him the best tutor in Chicago—who knows sign language—who will be leading his studies.”

  Margaret didn’t move. “That should come at a price, I believe.”

  Amelia swallowed hard. Her father and Henry’s lawyer had tried to talk to her about the finances right after Henry died, but she wasn’t ready to hear any of the discussion, so they had agreed to table it until after the funeral.

  She was frozen in her spot, heart beating wildly, as Margaret continued.

  “You might be now realizing that since Henry’s money came from his father, we were named the heirs of his estate, and thus, we will be the ones to approve or deny any large requests for money,” she said. Her face had a look of resignation on it, as though she was burdened by the responsibility of having to deal with Amelia and John for the foreseeable future.

  Amelia shook her head. “Fine, then. John and I will get along without.” She steeled herself. and lifted her chin in defiance.

  Margaret’s face remained neutral. “He also entrusted us with John’s guardianship.”

  Amelia laughed and clasped her hands across her chest. “Now I know that you’re a liar.”

  Margaret pressed her lips into a thin line and reached into her small clutch, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “See for yourself.” As Amelia unfolded it, she added, “There are many copies, so you may keep that one.”

  It was a statement, signed by Henry, awarding his parents full guardianship of John when he died. Amelia brought a shaking hand to her lips and then stopped when she saw the date.

  She shook her head and held the paper out. “This is dated the day before he died. He couldn’t speak, barely knew his own name. This cannot possibly be legal, if it is his signature.”

  Margaret cocked her head to the side. “It is, I assure you. Our lawyer was there when he signed it. We are John’s guardians now, not you.”

  Amelia took a step backward, her heel catching on the brightly colored red-and-yellow rug. “How could this have happened? How can this be possible?” she whispered.

  Margaret didn’t move to help her. “Perhaps Henry did not want you to have to worry about John’s extensive care after he was gone.”

  Amelia blinked slowly and pressed her hands into her stomach. She could hear the chatter of the guests inside the ballroom and the soft tinkling of the flatware as it hit the china plates. Cold chicken salad with red grapes and pear soup was what the chef had suggested. Amelia barely remembered agreeing to it, her world unfocused, like the first few moments after waking up, before the world is real, and anything is possible. Anything happy, positive, or exciting, of course. A birth, an unexpected windfall, good fortune found.

  Not death. Never death. Certainly not of someone so close.

  And certainly not that someone so close would conspire to destroy what was left of their family.

  “I’ve had my advisors look into some possibilities for your son,” Margaret continued, “and everyone agrees that the likely best place for him is a school in Wisconsin.” Her voice rose with each syllable, as though she had practiced exactly what to say.

  “What kind of school?” Amelia’s voice was hoarse, crackling through the air.

  “For children who are like him. They will know how to handle him, and if he can be taught, they will teach him,” she said quickly. “It’s a good, fine school. Someday, he may return to you when he’s older and more capable of being in society, and less of a . . . disruption to our events.”

  If. There it was, that word again.

  If you survive the pregnancy with influenza, your child will surely not be born alive.

  If your child is even born alive, it will surely die soon.

  If he lives past the age of one, he will be a very sickly child, with many problems.

  If you can afford it, place him in an institution, and have other children better suited to your status and lifestyle.

  If . . .

  “No,” Amelia said. Margaret raised her eyebrows and Amelia took a step forward. “No. John will not be sent away to any school. Of course he can learn just like other children, with some things changed. He will stay with me. I will find him the best teachers. I will fight you, get back guardianship.”

  “I see,” she said, her light eyes turning to stone. “And just how will you pay these teachers? I would assume they don’t work for charity. And how will you contest a document that your husband signed, that was witnessed by three people?”

  “I will find a way,” Amelia said loudly. She saw some of the guests in the ballroom turn their heads, trying to peer into the hallway to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  “And your home, and your allowances, and staff wages, all of those will need to be paid for as well,” Margaret said. “Not to mention the legal fees if you choose to fight us. It would be terrible if you were declared unfit, and then not so much as able to visit him.”

  Amelia didn’t reply and took another step forward, her face inches from Margaret’s. “You will do no such thing. And I will never agree to your plans for John.”

  “Amelia”—Margaret’s voice was measured, calm—“we do not need your permission. We can choose to do what we want with both of you. I can think of other, less comfortable schools he can be sent to should the need arise.”

  By now the entire room had turned to stare at them. Amelia could see her parents frozen, her mother’s fork in the air with a piece of lettuce on the end, her face flushing. Her father had his head down, staring at his brown drink in front of him.

  “What if I choose to sock you one, right here, in front of everyone?” Amelia hissed at Margaret. She lifted a fist toward her. Margaret shrank back in horror and fear, her once-haughty face turning gray and old for a moment before it returned to its wretched state, a small smile on her lips. “A lot of witnesses to your hysterics here. Be careful.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Amelia saw John walk toward her, weaving through the tables, a look of fear on his face. Amelia looked slowly at Margaret and then at her balled fist, and the redness she saw faded from view. She turned toward John and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. She picked him up and carried him out of the ballroom and down the hallway, before she allowed the sobs to escape.

  * * *

  “Please, you must calm down.” Amelia’s mother, Mary, pressed a crystal glass of liquor she poured from a carafe on Conrad’s bar table in his study. Amelia had followed her parents back to their house, unable to get herself home.

  Amelia looked at it and set it down on the carved wooden table in front of her. After the scene at the funeral, she walked with John to her parents’ home on Lake Shore Drive, where she found Alfred in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He fed John a lunch of buttered bread and apples and let him have a slice of cake from last night’s dessert.

  Alfred didn’t ask any questions and merely handed Amelia a white linen napkin to dry her face as he offered her a glass of wine. She drank it in two large gulps and then took John upstairs, where they both fell asleep in the nursery. She woke when her parents returned from the luncheon, and they ushered her into the study.

  “How can she do this?” Amelia said, lifting a shaking hand to her forehead. She rubbed it furiously. Her whole body felt like it was on fire, like it needed to be scratched by a thousand wire brushes. “How can she want to send him away?”

  Mary and Conrad exchanged a look, and Mary sighed. “It is her way. She feels that John’s presence is a blight on their social standing. You know this.”

  “And then what?” Amelia threw her hands in the air. “Everyone can pretend he doesn’t exist? Throw him into some prison where no one will love him, or
care for him, or—” Sobs cut off her words, lodging them in her throat.

  Mary came over and sat down next to Amelia and smoothed her hair back. “That may not be true. It might be a lovely school.”

  “He will be with other children who are like him, with teachers who know how to help him. They will know what to do with him,” Conrad said as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Father, I know what to do with him. There’s nothing to do—he’s my son. I love him. They can’t send him away from me,” Amelia said, tears running down her face.

  “It may just be temporary. See how he does in this school; see what it is like. Apologize to Margaret for causing a scene,” Conrad said wearily. “We can all sit down and talk in a couple of months and determine the best course of action for everyone.”

  Mary nodded. “You know we love John just as you do, but you will catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  “You cannot be serious. You want me to—” Amelia stopped as her father stood.

  “I need to lie down,” he said. “It’s been a long day and we all need some rest.”

  The women watched as he left the room, the discussion over. He was famous for doing so in business discussions. When he would negotiate no further with a client or colleague, he would simply walk out of the room. Deal over. Finished. Although there likely had been fewer and fewer negotiations going his way, as Amelia noticed the staff was leaner and a light coating of dust was on the furniture in the parlor.

  “Listen to me, Amelia,” Mary said in a whisper when Conrad had disappeared up the stairs.

  “Please, Mother, don’t take him from me. Please. I’ve already lost Henry. I can’t lose him.” Amelia put her face in her hands, her entire body constricting with pain.

  Mary leaned forward and put her hands on either side of her daughter’s. “I know. I won’t let that woman take him away. I don’t know how yet, but I will help you protect him. He will be safe. She is ruthless, though, Amelia. You know that.”