“Mason, a rag doll that belonged to Annabel Eicher is in that drawer. It was returned to me today. I don’t see how it’s possible that Duty knows, or smells a scent, when the doll has been sealed up for so many months.”
“Should we give it to him?”
“I don’t know, Mason.” She stood and moved to the foot of the bed. “But do, please, take it out of the drawer and unwrap it.”
Carefully, Mason took the parcel and put it on her bed. He withdrew the shrouded doll, which was wrapped in white cloth tied with twine. Mason slipped the twine aside and opened the cloth.
“So,” Emily said, “this is Mrs. Pomeroy.”
The small rag doll was seven or eight inches long, with cloth limbs, sewn-on features, yarn hair. The dress was muslin, once a shade of pink, worn very soft. The pinafore had been white. A scrap of round gold braid wrapped the waist, like a belt. Felt sewn to the feet, meant to suggest shoes, was nearly worn away.
Emily smoothed the doll’s dress and picked it up. The back, and the cloth hands and feet, were stained dark; it must have fallen or lain on a muddy surface before Annabel pushed it deeply into the crease of the backseat. The face and the front of the dress were only slightly discolored, and looked almost as they must have appeared last July, on the journey to Quiet Dell.
“You said Duty ran after them.” Mason knelt to lift Duty and his basket onto the bed. “Dogs remember a long time, in their way.”
“I suppose they do.” Emily put Mrs. Pomeroy in a corner of the basket, and the dog lay down, smelling the doll as though to be certain, and curled near, one paw upon it.
“Maybe he was still trying to find them,” Mason said, “and now he thinks he has.”
“Let’s hope so,” Emily said. “Shall we leave him to rest, and walk to the skating pond?” She turned to the window. “It’s a lovely, fleecy snow. The wind has picked up but the sun is shining.”
Together, they went to look. Snow fell steadily through the bright air, blanketing streets and sidewalks, the hotel awning, the long dark curves of parked cars. Snow layered merchants’ signs and the limbs of trees, dusting passersby who, glancing up, wet their eyes and lips, and hurried on.
• • •
Annabel likes to dart about after the gentleman with the luggage, in and out of the elevator, and follow him when he pushes the cart to stop at numbered doors. She knocks when he knocks, races to the end of the corridor and back before anyone answers, whirls into the room before him. She might pass through one wall and another, into the air along the windy streets, or see him wheel the rattling cart to the elevator and dash inside, her hand upon the cart. She fancies he knows she’s there, for he hums the same hymn every time or whistles it low until the doors open. Duty, their last day home, lunged at the pantry door and wriggled through, racing for their scent and the sharp, silencing boot, but Emily has brought Mrs. Pomeroy to him at last.
Annabel must see. She looks down at the saved bundle, so small on Emily’s big white bed. The boy bends to unwrap the cloth; Annabel puts her hands in his, almost touching, feeling. Mrs. Pomeroy is changed, and muddy on her back, but no one must wash her; the smell Duty wants is on her dress, and the cord must stay round her. Annabel must leave her, for the darkening road at Quiet Dell is cold now, the ruts and puddles frozen dry. Snow has filled the holes and rushes along the highway into town.
Annabel loves the clean cold snow and fierce wind; she pulls the storm with her, circling the hotel, blinding streets and passersby, filling the empty alley. The snow is fugue and counterpoint, a contrapuntal pounding; she plays pianissimo, staccato, forte, glissando; the gusting wind is a deep broad phrase, and Grandmother accompanies her right-handed, tossing away the falling pages. Da capo, she nods, turning and whirling; she sets the metronome’s tick tick and whispers, over the hours and days below, diminuendo.
XIV.
“Yes!” said the child. . . . “Home, for good and all. Home, forever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be . . . home’s like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you’re to be a man!”
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
December 4–6, 1931
Clarksburg, West Virginia
Emily Thornhill: A Prelude
The trial would begin in three days. William and Eric were flying to Clarksburg with Chicago journalists this afternoon. The snows had stopped last week, and runnels of melting ice were heard in the streets, but storms were forecast.
“It’s snowing,” said Mason, beside her at the window. “But not much.”
He was learning to sense her preoccupations. “Yes,” Emily said. The glowering skies and errant flakes were mere foreshadowing.
Mason took a conversational tone. “Mr. Malone and Mr. Lindstrom—do they ice skate?”
“Oh yes, and both well, I’d wager. You improve daily, Mason, but they shall have to be patient with me.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m a bit nervous that they arrive. They’ll both stay here at the Gore. I told you that Mr. Lindstrom has worked closely with me on this case—we’ve been to Clarksburg twice before. He’s rather dashing and quite droll. Do you know that word? It means, to be funny in a quick, understated way. Useful for a journalist. Eric grew up privileged, and has every confidence.”
“Did he go to a good school?”
“Oh yes, several of them.” Emily looked down at him. “Everyone needn’t be droll, Mason. You would do well at a good school. You are so clever. Plenty of dull boys go to good schools.”
“Then why are they there?”
She laughed. “They have families with money and reputation, or perhaps just money, while the boys with no money, with manners and a connection, are often smartest and work hardest.” She could tell he was marking her words. “Some use privilege to do good, Mason.”
“I read about Mr. Malone in the clippings,” Mason said.
The wind shook the glass in the panes. They both felt it and stepped closer to the window. The snow was heavier so quickly, blown and whirling. The clock in the room chimed three.
Emily clasped her hands. The boy had likely heard country people rail against bankers, as well they should. “Mr. Malone, as you know from the newspapers, does good.”
“Is he . . . droll?” Mason asked.
“No, actually,” Emily said. She felt nearly blinded with anxiety, and peered into the snow. They should have landed. They should be at the hotel. She turned away from the window and sat, facing the door. “Mason, why not tidy your work? I know Eric will want to read through it, perhaps tomorrow after he’s rested.”
“You don’t want me to wait with you?”
“No. Go along now, and shut your door, so that I won’t bother you.” She thought of her plane ride to Iowa in perfect summer skies and could not imagine suspension in such furious air. She must simply concentrate on bringing William to her through miles of tumbling cloud. She heard the wind and the silvery ping of sleet. Mason was in his room and then back, his hand on her arm as though rousing her.
“Someone’s knocking. At my door.”
“Your door?” Of course, William knew she had both rooms. She stood and walked to the adjoining room, Mason beside her like a shadow, and composed herself, hearing the soft repetitive knock. She opened the door wide, stunned with relief.
He’d come directly to her, moisture sparkling on his coat, his bags on the carpet beside him.
“Mr. Malone,” she said, and felt herself in his arms. It was in her eyes, she knew.
“Miss Thornhill.” He inclined his head, as though to a stranger on the street, and looked at Mason. “And who is this?”
“This is Mason Phillips, my archivist.”
“I see. How do you do, Mason?”
“Very well, sir.” He shook William’s hand firmly, as she’d taught him, then glanced at her and half turn
ed toward his worktable. “Excuse me, sir, I was just doing these here.”
He was trying to remove himself, she thought, from what must seem confusing, but they were in his room and he had nowhere to go. He put his hands on an open newspaper as though to turn the pages.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” William said. “Miss Thornhill, my room is down the hall. At your convenience, I should appreciate an update on the trial and your coverage.”
“In ten minutes’ time, should we say?”
“Yes, certainly.” He paused. “I would like to see the courthouse and the opera house. I understand it’s a short walk?”
“Yes, both are near the Gore.”
“In that case, let us meet in the lobby. Dress for the weather—the snow has turned to sleet.” He moved his gaze over her, for Mason was back at his table and could not see them.
She offered him an expression of surprise. “Of course, Mr. Malone. I shall join you . . . very soon.”
• • •
He was waiting near the door, and they were immediately outside. He wore a calf-length wool coat that hung loose from his broad shoulders, and a thick black angora scarf. Sleet pelted the hotel awning and slicked the sidewalks; he opened a large umbrella over them. No one was in the streets. The sky was the color of pewter and the day was darkening.
“My darling, thank heavens you are here.” She took his arm, for the umbrella sheltered them from view. “You have not kissed me. Whatever is the matter? Was it an awful flight?”
“It was a bit turbulent, but nothing is the matter. I need some air, and some sleet, I suppose, after the plane, to . . . acclimate.”
“Are you queasy?”
He laughed, and put his gloved hand on hers. “No, love. I am relieved, and thinking very clearly. It was more than turbulent. The plane slid off the runway and would have flipped over, but for a stand of accommodating fir trees, loaded with snow.”
“William!” She stopped and turned to him. “You didn’t tell me! You weren’t hurt? No one was hurt?”
“Oh no. It was . . . a spiritual exercise. Your friend Eric was seated beside me. I believe we have bonded forever.”
“One does bond in that fashion, with Eric. Now you must kiss me, so many times. Oh, I knew— Must we keep walking?”
“Yes, to some shelter, outdoors perhaps. Is there anywhere near?” The sound of the sleet abated, but he held the umbrella before them to break the wind.
“I’ll take you to the skating pond in the park. The Victorian gazebo will certainly be unoccupied. We turn here. It’s just there, two blocks down, gaslit at night, quite pretty. I brought Hart’s ice skates with me, don’t ask why, and they fit Mason. I rent a pair at the kiosk. We bring Duty and skate almost every afternoon.”
“Emily, who in the world is that boy?”
“He was a street urchin, picking pockets, and very well, so I hired him. He’s my archivist, and clips all the coverage—”
“I realize. Does it seem, a rather grim pastime for a child?”
She smiled. “Grim, did you say?”
“Yes, I met Grimm, on arriving at the Gore. In any event—”
“It is surely less grim than living on the streets, prey to any manner of person. His father is a drunk and petty thief who beat him; he is an only child, like us, William—who tried to care for his mother, and sat beside her as she died.”
They entered the park, sheltered by enormous pines that broke the wind. The gazebo before them, with its dark slate roof and chest-high, white clapboard walls, seemed a circular boat on a lake of snow. A small matching kiosk, the skate rental, closed and padlocked, bordered the pond.
Emily clasped William’s arm. “Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve longed to show you this place.”
“Emily,” he said.
“William, I know what you will say, but say it.”
“The boy’s father is a drunk and a thief; the boy is a thief. His background, sadly, is established; you cannot erase it. He is not an infant, whom you might influence early on. How can you trust such a child?”
“How might he trust me, is more to the point. It will take time. He’s intelligent, very, I think, though he went intermittently to a country school. His mother taught him at home, from the Bible and her own books; he knows half a volume of Robert Burns by heart, which he used to recite to her. He relishes organization, and learns quickly.”
“How old is he?”
“He turns twelve on Christmas Eve, though looks a bit younger.”
“He is Hart’s age.”
“Yes. Many children are Hart’s age.”
The skating pond lay before them, the ice glistening and dark. The gazebo was empty; the numerous benches were pushed aside. William put his arm around her and led her up the steps. “Here,” he said, “out of the wind, with a clear view of the wood.”
“Yes, and the mountains beyond. Magnificent, aren’t they? And harbor such difficult lives. The miners live out there, up impassable roads, in houses that are not heated or plumbed. They live as the first settlers lived, two hundred years ago.”
“Are you cold?” He pulled her close on the bench.
“No one can see us here,” she said, and sat on his lap, embracing him, her face in his warm throat. “Oh, I long for you too much. I must put you out of my mind until we are speaking or touching.”
He opened his coat to enclose her. “Put me out of your mind? We can’t have that. You are on my mind, in my mind, always.” He lifted her face, to kiss her, small kisses against her skin. “You are the air I breathe, the air itself.”
She pulled off her gloves and put her hands inside his shirt, on his skin. “You have a key for me, to your room?”
“Of course.” He buttoned his voluminous coat around her to enclose her completely, and pulled up the generous collar to shield them both. “Emily—”
The wind quieted. Snow fell haphazardly in big errant flakes. “Shall we go back to the hotel?”
“Soon.”
“You want to talk to me before you ravish me.”
“That is exactly right.” He smiled, laughing with her, his face in her hair.
“It’s a compliment, I suppose.”
“Emily, it’s important.” He drew back to look at her.
“All right.” She felt a tremor of fear but put her hands against his throat, to feel his voice, and met his eyes. She’d seen them well with tears, and startle in ecstasy, and yield to her across a room.
His eyes held hers. “If you want a child, we can have a child. There is no impediment.”
She did not speak at once. The wind, gusting across them to the wood, seemed to take her words. She drew closer against him. “William—if we’d met much sooner—I would love to have had a child with you . . . you should have children—”
“Emily, we could have a child. You are young enough. It is not too late, if that is what you want. There is no lack of funds. I told you about the apartment in Paris, that my grandfather purchased years ago. We could have the child there, and you could adopt it—”
“Adopt my own child? So we are talking fairy tales and secrets.”
“You speak French. You could work from Paris for a time. I’m talking with associates about a financial venture there. We could live in Paris every summer, completely freely, and continue in Chicago, as before, in a larger apartment, with help for you, so that you could go on working.”
They sat without speaking, watching snow come on from behind the mountains, stirring the faraway evergreens and concealing the distant hills. The storm approached like a curtain moving within itself.
“Here is the snow. I’m so glad you’re safe.” She kissed him slowly, deeply, and said, against his mouth, “So, you have thought about this, before today.”
“I have been thinking about it for weeks.”
“But you did not mention it until today.”
“Emily, it seems the time to mention it.”
“Because you feel I am entered into a folly.”
“I don’t know. Are you? Why did you not mention the boy to me, in any conversation?”
“At first I didn’t know that the arrangement would even last until you arrived, and then I thought it better that you get to know him yourself. William, I have simply hired an assistant of sorts, and given a boy a place to sleep and food to eat. But, this child of whom you speak—do you have a burning desire for a child?”
He held her face in his gloved hands. “My desires . . . are completely satisfied.”
“Then we are fortunate, because I don’t want to share you with an infant, even our infant. As it is, I must share you, and wait for you.” She looked at him. “Are you disappointed in me?”
“No. My disappointment does not live in any world you inhabit.”
Snow grew thick about them, blowing like cold dust into the gazebo, falling in heavy slants onto the woods and frozen pond. She saw his eyes change and moisten, and reached inside his clothes. “Only turn this way,” she whispered, for they were sitting at the end of the bench, and she must get her legs behind him. There was no impediment; she’d inserted her pessary and left her undergarments aside an hour ago, for she’d thought they would go directly to his room. She wore only her garter belt and wool stockings under her skirt. His hands found her bare thighs and hips and were inside her; she pulled up layers of fabric and bent her knees behind him, to brace him against her.
He moved farther to the edge and held her on his thighs, in his hands, just enough away to thrust inside her, and stay. Each time was more intense, and they held themselves from one another, to look and see, as they had looked at one another that first day in his office, and not touched.
The snow was blinding beyond their shelter. They were wholly enclosed, for the gaslights and pond were barely visible. The street and buildings opposite had disappeared. “We are absolutely alone,” Emily said, and breathed, “it is our storm.” Then language deserted her.
• • •
Snow fell into the evening. She stood at the reception desk to ask for her messages. William was having dinner with Morris, the prosecutor in the case. She would hear it all later, and had dined with Mason at the Gore restaurant as he subtly counted the new guests; there were thirty. Only first arrivals, she’d assured him; trains were delayed in the storm. He’d informed her that the Gore telegraph operators had given him leave to hold Emily’s place in line, at every break in the trial, so that she could file quickly. He was a wonder. She wished she were teaching him literature or art history rather than newspaper coverage of a heinous crime, but fortune had introduced them here and now. She’d sent him upstairs, for they were just in from walking the dog. How might she help him feel comfortable with William, with Eric, and provide them demonstration of Mason’s qualities? She determined to have dinner for the four of them in her rooms.
Quiet Dell: A Novel Page 33