by Janette Oke
“I thought it would be nice for you young folks to get to know one anothah, being the same age—and you alone in that big house and all,” she was saying. “You must get awfully lonely.”
“That’s very kind,” Belinda said softly. “I do get lonely at times.”
“Well, you just count on us—me and Morton, anytime, deah,” fluttered Mrs. Prescott, and Morton shuffled uneasily in his chair.
Chiles entered the room, cleared his throat, and announced in a rather high voice, “Dinnah is served, madam.”
Mrs. Prescott nodded and quickly stood up. “Well, well, now. Let’s go right in.”
Young Morton seemed totally confused. He acted as if he didn’t know if he was to escort his aunt Celia or the young lady dinner guest. Mrs. Prescott took charge. “I’ll lead the way, Morton, and you bring Miss Belinda,” she directed. Morton moved to hesitantly offer Belinda his arm, his face red with embarrassment.
Belinda ached for the young man. He was so obviously ill at ease that she could only sympathize with him. She gave him a smile and fell into step beside him.
His build was slight, making him seem shorter than he actually was, Belinda noticed. His chin was sharp, his nose a bit too long, his mouth too large, his eyes squinty and hidden behind rimmed glasses, his hair stiff and awkward looking. These features taken alone would not have been a problem, but combined as they were on the young man, they did not make an attractive whole.
Perhaps he is so unsure of himself because he is so plain, reasoned Belinda, determined that she would do her best to set the young man at ease.
“I thought it would be nice to have just a cozy little chitchat,” Mrs. Prescott explained as she took her place at the table and motioned Belinda to her right, the young man to her left. Belinda had figured out by now that she was the only guest, a mystifying fact she did not have time to mull over at the moment.
Sitting directly across from the young man proved to be more unsettling than if she had sat next to him, Belinda decided. His nervousness was even more apparent when he was forced to meet her eyes. As a result, Belinda, too, became self-conscious and found it difficult to converse.
Fortunately for the dinner party, Celia Prescott never seemed to run out of things to say. She chatted endlessly throughout the meal, and Belinda needed only to give an occasional nod or murmur some acknowledgment. But as the evening progressed, it became more and more apparent that the woman had “set up” the dinner as an opportunity for the two young people to “become acquainted.” Belinda began to feel more and more uncomfortable.
“A young woman like you, attractive and poised, ought to be married,” said the frank Mrs. Prescott. “And it does seem such a pity that you should bear the whole burden of caring for such a big house and estate all on you-ah own. I told Morton heah that one who has had some training in business affaihs should be handling all of that fuss. My word! I nevah would have wanted to care foah the business end of things like my Wilbur was expected to do. So many things to considah. Now—well, I just live heah. The trust takes care of all the details. I . . .” and she rambled on and on.
Belinda was beginning to get the picture. “Oh, I really don’t mind the business details at all,” she finally had a chance to say. “I do have a reliable attorney. It makes it much easier. And I also have an excellent staff. They can care for the house and grounds quite well on their own.”
Mrs. Prescott looked a trifle disconcerted. “But still,” she hurried on, “a young woman like you needs a . . . a husband . . . family. Surely you don’t want to live all you-ah life alone. Why—”
Belinda smiled. “Perhaps living alone is preferred to living with . . . with an unsuitable mate,” she said evenly. Morton shuffled uncomfortably. It was clear he felt he was being discussed. Oh dear, thought Belinda, annoyed with herself. I hadn’t meant . . . I only meant . . .
Belinda felt sorry for the young man and tried to change the direction of the conversation. “Do you plan to travel this winter, Mrs. Prescott?” she asked.
It seemed to take the older woman a few moments to change the direction of her thoughts. At last she was able to respond. “No . . . no, I think not . . . though I really haven’t given it much thought at all. I . . . I, well, it’s early yet. I often don’t make my plans until much latah.”
“Have you seen the new play at the theater?” asked Belinda, determined not to let the conversation return to its former topic.
“Yes . . . yes, I have. Twice, in fact,” admitted the woman.
“Then it must be a good one,” Belinda enthused, glad for something new to discuss.
“Well, not particularly,” said Mrs. Prescott. “I often go two or three times—just for the outing. In fact, the play itself was rather mundane, but the company is always good. I enjoy the time out in the evening. It’s always nice to be with othah people.”
Belinda nodded and was about to make further comment when Mrs. Prescott went on. “And that’s why I worry about you, deah. You nevah get out. Morton would be glad to escort you to the play, wouldn’t you, Morton?” Without waiting for his agreement she went on, “And there are any numbah of interesting museums and concerts and such that Morton would be happy to—”
“Oh, I have seen most of the museums,” Belinda informed them easily. “When Pierre was home, Aunt Virgie arranged for us to go.”
Mrs. Prescott’s face clouded with the recollection. Belinda remembered that the woman had confronted her friend Virgie about letting her young grandson escort “common help” about Boston. Now she seemed to be trying to set up her nephew with that same young lady. Mrs. Prescott flushed slightly. “I’m sure there are new displays since that time, my deah,” she said with an indulgent smile. “And one can nevah get too much music.”
Belinda had to agree with that. She loved the concerts and did miss them.
“Well, for the moment, I am dreadfully busy,” she replied with another smile. “I don’t have time for concerts or museums or any such thing. I am totally taken with trying to make all the arrangements for Marshall Manor—”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying, deah,” the older woman said with a hint of impatience. “Theah is absolutely no need for you to bothah you-ah pretty head with such things. A capable husband could care for all that. Why—”
But this time it was Morton who cut in. “Aunt Celia, I believe that Miss Davis is quite capable of making up her mind if—and when—she wishes to marry,” he said with more spunk than Belinda would have given him credit for. “And I won’t be available as escort because I am going back to Yale the first of the week.”
“You said . . . you said you hadn’t made up your mind,” Mrs. Prescott shot back at him.
“Well, I have now,” the gentleman replied with determination. “And now I believe we are ready for our dessert. Would you like me to ring for Chiles?”
With a disgusted look, Mrs. Prescott reached for the bell, and Belinda gave the young man a hint of a smile and a nod. Her respect for him had just risen tremendously, but a healthy measure of respect was all she felt.
Sixteen
Arrangements
Belinda finally received a message from the attorney she had contacted, Anthony Keats. It said simply that he had investigated the possibilities for the use of Marshall Manor and had some proposals to discuss. He would be happy to drop by the house if she’d like to set a time. Belinda gave Windsor a few appointment times and had him call the law office to arrange one. She found herself getting more and more nervous as the appointed time drew near.
Windsor opened the door to the man and ushered him into the library, where Belinda soon joined him. He looked pleased with himself, and Belinda felt her pulse quicken as she asked him to be seated and then took the chair directly across.
“I have done a good deal of looking into the matter,” he began.
Belinda listened with anticipation.
“The first possibility that came to mind was an orphanage,” he began. Belinda wondered
why she hadn’t thought of it, but even as she considered it, she realized the large staff an orphanage would require.
“Of course, an orphanage doesn’t seem to fit too well with such a decorous house,” the man went on. “One would need to completely strip the rooms and furnish them far more simply and sell or dispose of all the . . . the ornate bric-a-brac. You couldn’t have children and all of the beautiful things trying to coexist here.”
Belinda followed his logic. It was unreasonable to expect children to live in such a setting. It was also very difficult to consider selling off all the things that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had collected and viewed as a part of her home. Belinda shook her head. It didn’t seem like a good idea after all.
“Now, another good possibility,” the man went on, “would be a conservatory of sorts.”
“A conservatory?”
“Music—the arts,” the man said. “She did enjoy the arts, didn’t she?”
“Oh yes. Of course,” responded Belinda. “But how—?”
“You could set this up for exceptional students. You have the music room for lessons, the library and three or four other rooms to convert to practice rooms. The bedrooms as boarding facilities. It would work very nicely for music.”
Belinda sat very still. It was all such a new thought to her.
“Or any of the arts,” he continued convincingly. “If you wished to set it up for painting, you could convert the front parlor to a—”
But Belinda stopped him with a shake of her head. She really didn’t want to “convert” the house to anything. She was much more interested in using it the way it was.
“Well, you could set it up as a library. This part of town could use a good library. The front parlor would then be a reading room. The dining room and north parlor additional shelf space—” But Belinda was shaking her head again.
“You have already ruled out a museum,” said the man, ill-concealed frustration in his voice.
Belinda nodded. To think of the house as an attraction for the curious just didn’t seem right to her.
“I really would like it . . . lived in. In its present state,” said Belinda.
The man sighed deeply. “Miss Davis, to do that, you may have to sell it,” he reminded her. “Who would want—or need—a house this size? This . . . this elaborate?”
“It’s not a good place for children,” Belinda admitted. “They couldn’t run and play freely. Staffing it would be a problem. I don’t suppose it would work at all for children.” She was talking more to herself than to the gentleman who sat before her.
But the man answered anyway. “Exactly! And the children are the only ones who would need such a place. Other folks have homes of their own.”
Belinda agreed sadly. It seemed that her plan wasn’t going to be workable after all.
“You’re right,” she agreed with a sigh. “It’s just the young—and the old—who often need a place to stay.”
And then Belinda sat up straight in her chair. “That’s it,” she cried in excitement. “That’s it!”
“I beg your pardon,” said the man.
“The elderly. We can make it into a home for needy older folks. It will be perfect! They can enjoy all the pretty things. We won’t need as many staff members as an orphanage would. They can live in dignity—with the company of others. They can walk in the gardens, sit in the sunshine. They will have the library, the music room. It’s perfect.”
The man across from her was staring at her face. Belinda felt really enthusiastic over this new idea. At last he nodded slowly. “It might work,” he decided. “If handled cautiously, carefully.”
“Oh yes,” enthused Belinda.
“How many would you consider?” he asked.
“Six? Eight? No more than a dozen,” answered Belinda.
“And how would you find the . . . the occupants?” he continued.
“I don’t know, but churches—the city—someone must know of older folks in need of a home.”
“They would need to be able to climb stairs,” the man reminded Belinda.
“Maybe some sort of lift could be built,” she suggested.
“It would mar the structure,” he cautioned.
“We wouldn’t need to put it in the front hall,” Belinda countered. “There’s plenty of room to put some arrangement off the north parlor or the library. We’ll have someone take a look.”
The lawyer nodded his head somewhat dubiously.
“What about help?” he asked. “Will your present household staff agree to such a plan?”
Belinda sobered. “I told them that I plan to do something with the house,” she said slowly. “I will need to talk with them about this idea. I wouldn’t want to do something against their wishes. This is their home, too.”
The man nodded. “Do you want me to discuss it with them?” he asked.
“No. No, I will talk with them about the plan. I’d prefer it that way.”
“Then I guess we have nothing more to consider until I hear further from you,” the attorney said, tucking his sheaf of proposal papers back in his leather case and standing to his feet.
“I will be in touch,” Belinda assured him. “And thank you. Thank you so much.”
He didn’t seem quite as excited as Belinda was.
Windsor was waiting beyond the library doors to show the gentleman out. As soon as the entrance door had closed, Belinda turned to the butler.
“We need a staff meeting—in the north parlor,” she announced excitedly. “See if everyone can be gathered in fifteen minutes—and have Potter prepare tea—for all of us. Thomas, too, if he’ll join us. No. No—not the parlor,” Belinda changed her mind. The parlor was much too formal. “We’ll meet on the back veranda.” She would meet with her staff in a place where they felt more at ease.
Then Belinda hurried up the stairs to change into a simple gown. She wanted the discussion to be among equals. They had an important matter before them. One that would affect all their futures.
The staff had assembled on the veranda by the time Belinda returned. Some looked a bit uncomfortable and anxious as she made her appearance, but Belinda quickly attempted to make them feel at ease.
“Potter, would you pour, please?” she asked and settled herself on the top step, where she could look up rather than down on her staff.
“Ella, would you pass the cakes, please? And then we can get on with our discussion as soon as everyone finds a comfortable spot.”
Thomas accepted his tea and joined Belinda on the step. McIntyre flopped down on the grass at his feet.
Windsor pushed a chair forward for Potter and another for Cook, then rather reluctantly took one himself. Ella and Sarah stood leaning against the veranda rail.
“I told you all that I hoped to keep Marshall Manor the same—but be able to put it to another use,” began Belinda. “Well, the attorney whom I asked to look into the matter was here this morning.” Belinda could tell she would not have needed to mention that bit of information. The whole household was well aware of the fact.
“Well, he had a number of suggestions. He proposed that we use it as a . . . a music or arts conservatory, or a library . . . or such. But for all those things the house would have to be altered—remodeled. Well, I don’t favor changing it.”
There were approving nods from some of the employees.
“We talked about an orphanage—” Belinda noticed nervous glances. “But that, too, would involve a great deal of alteration.”
Belinda thought she heard sighs of relief.
“To me, the most logical thing would be a beautiful, natural home for the elderly,” went on Belinda. “We could house a limited number of those who need homes. The house basically can be left as it is. All the pretty things can be enjoyed. The occupants can stroll the garden paths, bask in the sun on the benches, or sit in the parlors and do handwork. Those who play can enjoy the piano. Or they can read in the library. And, the best part, there really wouldn’t be that much we would
need to change.”
Belinda watched the faces in the circle around her. Their expressions had gone from concern, to doubt, to acceptance in a few short minutes.
Windsor spoke first. “Would the present staff be expected to proceed as formerly, m’lady?”
“All who wish to,” responded Belinda. “Of course, we will need more staff. There will be more people to feed—and care for.”
A few more faces relaxed.
“T’won’t nobody dig in my flower beds,” mumbled Thomas.
Belinda laughed. “We’ll keep all hands out of your flowers, Thomas, I promise you,” she informed him. A few others chuckled along with her.
“But we would need more help in the kitchen and the laundry. And for the cleaning. I guess we should all sit down and take a good look at what will need doing and decide whose duty it will be. Then we will need to find additional staff. But . . . first I need to know your reaction to the plan.”
Belinda let her eyes travel from face to face, but no one volunteered an opinion.
“Windsor, what do you think of the idea?” Belinda finally asked.
Windsor didn’t hesitate. “Things will nevah be like they were in the past,” he said evenly, “and there is no way to change that. I’m sure that after all consideration, the plan you have chosen is the best possible one, m’lady.”
“And you’ll stay on in your present capacity?”
Windsor nodded. “Yes, m’lady,” he agreed.
“Good!” Belinda exclaimed, her relief evident. “Potter?”
“I couldn’t leave the old house aftah so many years,” the woman acknowledged, close to tears. “I’ll stay.”
“Thank you,” said Belinda. “Cook?”
The woman just nodded, looking as though her feelings were too close to the surface to trust herself to speak.
“Sarah?”
“I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you, miss,” replied Sarah, blushing deeply. “I . . . I’m planning to be married . . . soon. I won’t be staying on in any case.” She lowered her face and moved one foot nervously across the veranda boards.
“Why, Sarah,” exclaimed Belinda, rising quickly to her feet, “how wonderful! I am so happy for you.” And she went to give the girl a hug. The whole group seemed to pick up the excitement, and a murmur ran through the staff.