****
Tess felt a little brazen to be outside without a parasol, especially so when she reached the top of the hill on Bellevue Avenue and spied a group of young debutantes clustered in front of the Newport Casino dressed entirely and elegantly in white, with perfectly matched lace parasols, exquisite hats, and elbow-length kid gloves (their first pair of the day), all calculated to compete with the genteel matches taking place on the lawn courts within.
Something about the Casino intimidated Tess. Built in over a decade earlier by James Gordon Bennett, Jr., after he was nearly thrown out of the exclusive Newport Reading Room for having goaded a friend into riding his horse onto the club's piazza, the Casino instantly became a place to see and be seen. Tess ducked down a side lane, intending to ask for her brother at the back entrance.
But at the back entrance, too, there was a small group gathered. These were all men. All things considered, they were less intimidating than the women, and so Tess began boldly to walk in their direction. She wasn't aware of the landau behind her until its driver yelled, "Hey there, out of the way!" in an urgent voice and trotted his horse within a few feet of where she was walking.
Curious, Tess watched as the landau came to a stop alongside the huddle of men, who broke apart to reveal at their center a litter which lay on the ground. Someone was on it, injured, and Tess wondered, as bystanders do, how badly the victim was hurt. It was an awkward time to make inquiries about her brother; Tess was about to retreat and return to Beau Rêve when she heard one of the men say in an important voice, "All right, boys, easy up now. Don't tip it."
But the two who were lifting the injured person did tip the litter, slightly, and a scrap of red slipped off it and fell to the ground. Tess identified the object without thinking: it was a cap, a boy's golf cap. It cost twenty-three cents at Sullivan's on Parade Corner, and it had been the only red cap in a stack of gray, brown, and blue ones. Young Will had wanted it desperately, and Tess had said no, it would show dirt too easily, but Will had got around her by going straight to the top, and his father had said, "Boy wants a spot of color on 'im, let 'im have it." Tess had teased Will about it all the way home, calling him a cheeky little showoff, and Will had laughed.
"Will," Tess whispered, running up to the litter as the two men struggled without success to lay the litter across the carriage.
"Won't work," said a third. "Lift him off and over to me."
"Will."
The official turned around. "And who might you be, miss?"
"That's my brother!" cried Tess, horrified to see a trickle of blood drying on the side of Will's head. There was no smile, no bright-eyed mischief in his wan face; it was so unlike him to be expressionless that Tess, for one insane moment, convinced herself that it was someone else's face. Anyone else's face.
"Will Moran is your brother?" asked the official.
"I said he was, didn't I?" Tess cried. She climbed into the landau and took her brother from the man who was holding him.
"What happened, what happened?" she asked, cradling him and gently lifting aside the thick black hair that covered his wound.
Some of the other men had backed away a respectful step or two, but all eyes were on Tess. A well-dressed man, graying and with a pale, long face, began to speak, but the tournament official interrupted him.
"Never mind, Dr. Lamer. No need to drag you into this. The boy was hit with a rock, young woman, thrown by some ragamuffin in the street. It might have been one of the ball-boys on strike. Whoever it was got away, though inquiries are being made. I must hasten to add that the ruffian was not on the Casino premises at the time of the incident, and the Casino does not hold itself responsible. If he was a ball-boy, he must have broken away from the pack on Bellevue Avenue and followed your brother around to the back."
He paused, cleared his throat, and added, "It occurs to me that the bright cap made your brother's head into an irresistible bull's-eye."
"It occurs to me, Mr. Thickwaite, that the cap may have prevented a worse injury," interrupted Dr. Larner. He turned to Tess and said, "My carriage will take the boy home. It's good you came on the scene. I can't leave the tournament, but I've arranged for another physician to look in on him. Dr. Wilkes may have trouble finding your house—no one seems quite certain where Will lives—so keep an eye out for his arrival," he added in a voice of kind authority.
"Yes ... yes, I'll post someone. What else can I do? When will my brother come out of this? Will he be all right after? How long—?"
"We have to wait and see, my dear. There's very little we can do except see that he's kept warm and comfortable." To the driver Dr. Larner said, "Take it slow, Jeremy. No wild horseracing down Levin Street, mind you. Nice and slow." He turned to the tournament official and said, "Well, Mr. Thickwaite. Now that you've established that the Casino is not responsible, I believe your business here is done." He inclined his arm toward the tennis courts, and Mr. Thickwaite had no choice but to fall in behind him. One last sympathetic grimace by Dr. Larner to Tess, and the party broke up.
Tess directed the driver to take Bellevue Avenue rather than Levin Street; society had by now abandoned their carriages for their conservatories and high tea, and the Avenue was the smoother, faster route. The driver, filled with self-importance, screamed at everyone within hearing range to make way, make way, as he headed south. Tess held her brother close, compensating for the bounces of the carriage wheels. Each new bump jolted her into deeper, hotter anger.
Lord, what is it you want from us? she whispered, her head bent low over her brother. Is there no one else to amuse you? No one else for you to toy with? Leave us alone, will you? Play your cruel little jokes on someone else.
She encircled Will more tightly, intent on warding off the malevolent God that seemed to be pursuing them.
"Will, wake up," she said softly. It sounded so normal, like rousing him from a nap. "Are you awake?" She stared blankly at his pale face: peaceful, undisturbed, in a spellbound sleep.
"Oh, leave us," she whispered to no one, the tears rolling down her face.
Chapter 8
The night that followed was a twisted hallucination, filled with wandering demons and long-lost emotions. Mourning came: the devastating sense of loss for her mother that Tess had been too seasick to feel at her death. And guilt, for having hated her mother at her trial in Wrexham for petty thievery. And sorrow, too: for Maggie's youth being eaten up by disease. Frustration: that with all her strength, Tess was powerless to help. But mostly Tess felt overwhelming pity, because that was all she had to give.
A sooty lamp flickered and died somewhere in the dingy room, lighting nothing but adding its noxiousness to the acrid air. Will lay still unconscious on the dirty, unmade bed. His father was cradling his head in his vast arms on the table, snoring lightly. Tess, stiff and sore from her vigil in the rickety chair she'd placed next to Will's bed, was bent over double, her head dropped between her knees, stretching her spine. Demons leave at dawn, leaving numbness behind.
****
"Ow-w! Who ... ow-w ... hit me?" They were his first words, full of bravado and pain.
"Will!" Lightheaded, Tess fell to her knees on the floor alongside her brother's bed. "Dear Will—someone threw a stone at you. Father, wake up," she called softly.
"A stone! Oh-h—what a dirty trick," Will said weakly. "And I know who—Billy Corcoran, that dirty rat." He moaned and rolled his head a little. "Ow—it feels like my head's been through a mangler .... " He tried to get up. "Wait'll I get—"
"Back down, boy," his father interrupted in a severe voice completed unrelated to the look of love on his face. "Plenty o' time for vengeance after. You give us a turn, you did," he added gruffly, approaching the bed.
Tess allowed herself, at last, to burst into tears.
"Gee whiz, Tess—it ain't anything," her brother protested feebly.
But Tess continued to sob, and no one could comfort her.
****
"I suppose you expect me to believe that?
What will you use for an excuse the next time you stay out all night? That your father's been shot in a duel?" Cornelia Winward tapped a satin shoe on a parquet floor, not at all amused.
"It's the truth, ma'am. Will nearly died. Even now the doctor says he must be watched carefully."
"And at this rate he shall have more than enough around him to do that. You're very close to a dismissal," Cornelia added angrily. She brought her forefinger within a hair's width of her thumb. "This close. If Marie hadn't been here, who on earth would've attended me? I don't feel I can trust you at all, Tessie. Your loyalties are ill-placed. Perhaps you're too young for this. I really think you're too young."
Tess drew a deep, slow breath. Should she fight for this wretched position? Did she have a choice? She exhaled slowly. "Of course I feel differently. I—" A knock interrupted her.
"Ah, Marie! Good." To Tess Cornelia said, "There's a rather elaborate picnic planned today; Marie will be accompanying me. Perhaps a quiet afternoon of reflection will allow you to put things in a better perspective," she suggested in a voice filled with meaning. "You might look over the ecru satin gown. I tore it last night learning a new mazurka. They do it differently—oh, never mind. See if the gown can be salvaged, but I'm sure it cannot. Do hurry, Marie."
Marie, pretty, dark, with a Frenchwoman's expressiveness. rolled her eyes at Tess and fell in behind her mistress.
Tess was left alone, with sewing to last her a week. (Cornelia was very hard on her wardrobe, having learned early on that a little well-placed sabotage worked just as well as begging and pleading all the time for new gowns.) Tess took up the torn dress, an off-white satin gown with fine lace appliqué spilling over the shoulders into a free fall down the back, over the bustle, and along the edge of the train. The tear, a diagonal rent across the fabric, was obvious. Tess thought about it for a while, at length deciding to sew appliquéd lace of a complementary design over the rip, though it meant introducing the new pattern randomly throughout the fall of lace. It would require hours, even days, of handsewing, but the gown was an exquisite piece of art, and Tess was determined to save it.
Or am I really doing this simply out of malice? she wondered. To thwart her? She laid the dress flat on a table in Cornelia's dressing room and smiled. Probably.
After an hour of planning and sketching, she was ready to begin the painstaking work of separating lace motifs from the roll of exquisite appliqué that lay folded in tissue in one of a pair of tall French semainiers that stood side by side in the dressing room. Tess took out the appliqué, then wandered over to a small lead-paned window which opened out onto the manicured grounds.
Two elderly guests were touring the garden, companionably arm in arm, sharing a parasol. A small terrier trotted busily ahead of the ladies, then returned to shepherd them forward, determined to keep his touring party together and safe. The morning was perfect, another pearl strung onto a necklace of fine days, and Tess decided to take her work outside to her favorite bench in the servants' yard. The servants' yard was tiny, it was true, but much grander houses then Beau Rêve had no yard at all for their staffs. Space in fashionable Newport was dear; the whole of Aquidneck Island could have been dropped into the park of one large country house in England. Tess had been spoiled by Wrexham, but fortunately for her, her American employer was an outdoor enthusiast who firmly believed that fresh air was necessary to cleanse the body and make it more energetic.
Tess settled into an iron and pine bench tucked among high hedges and took up her scissors and the lace from her sewing basket. The work was so pleasant, the day so warm, and her daydreams so sweetly melancholy, that two hours passed as one.
The afternoon was in its most languid phase when Bridget rushed up to her and asked, "Have you seen Peter Boot?"
Tess shook her head and Bridget hurried on, but the thought that Peter Boot might be in the area made Tess reluctantly begin to gather up her things. The sound of a man's footfall on the path startled her into a panic; she stuffed the lace into her basket and jumped up, ready for flight.
"You're here, Tess!"
Edward Hillyard was dressed, this time, in white flannels and a beautifully cut double-breasted blazer, with a yachting cap in one hand. In the bright sunlight the tips of his sun-bleached hair and even his mustache shone as brass as the buttons of his jacket. He was an outdoor dilettante, tan and fit and urbane all at the same time, an eminently decorative guest.
"Of course I'm here," Tess answered rather calmly, despite the knockdown that her heart had taken. "Where else would I be?"
"Down at the wharves, of course. I heard one maid tell another that the 'Moran girl' had gone to see her 'busted-up brother' somewhere near Howard's Wharf."
"Maggie Moran, that would be. My sister."
"Ah. Well—you're looking wonderfully serene. I assume that means your brother is mending nicely?"
"He seems to be." Serene! Her emotions were dragging her like a runaway horse.
"Good. In any case, if your sister had chosen to look out her brother's window, she would've spied a nattily dressed yachtsman skulking around the wharf like a water rat. That would be your servant, ma'am," he said with a bow and a flourish of his cap.
"But why?" The words floated from her, soft as the flight of a butterfly.
He shrugged. "Why. Who can say why? I'm bored, you interest me, the picnic was a fiasco—"
"Oh yes, the picnic. Miss Cornelia did say it was going to be 'rather elaborate,'" Tess interrupted, mostly for something to say.
Because he was just standing there, twirling his hat, or trying to. His dark brows were pulled together in concentration as he managed a wobbly circle. For one silly instant he looked like an eager, intelligent puppy, which endeared him to her.
He stopped, grinned, tossed the hat up, caught it by its visor and said, "Oh, it was an elaborate picnic, all right: Team A, which included half a dozen of us nautical types, was to take a new and completely experimental gasoline-powered yacht over to Price's Neck, there to anchor off and join forces ashore with Team B and several magnums—or is that 'magna'?—of champagne and mountains of pâté. I predict great things for the internal combustion engine, but not quite yet. Anyway, the damn thing sputtered and died around Castle Hill, and we were towed back by a steam yacht and flung up on one of the piers like the catch du jour. Give me a sturdy mainsail and a halyard to hoist it with anytime. End of picnic plan. Can you sit?"
"I can," she said with an impish look, "but I think the others may consider that you're trespassing."
"Ouch. Tossed out on my flannels by the servant class, no less. Ah well—may I walk with you a bit?"
"I don't think so." Her voice, soft and blurred, sounded unconvincing. "Why are you in our yard?" Clearly it wasn't to seek her out.
"My dear young woman, I'm ashamed to say. We're playing an inane version of hide and seek; the first three men to be found by the first three women have to exchange clothes with them. Some of them, anyway. It's absurd. Miss Cornelia's idea. She considered she was being brilliantly original, I suppose."
Tess and Hillyard had begun sauntering—technically, it was true, it could not be called walking—toward the entrance to the yard. Tess, dressed in her uniform of black, would have liked just once to be wearing white, extravagant and elegant and gay. She wanted the luxury of being able to laugh in the company of this man. To tease him. To be arch and clever and coy. But a maddening sense of propriety would not let her.
"So you are hiding from a game of hide and seek," she said wistfully.
"Which you would not, I gather? Am I to take it you enjoy games and amusements?"
"Oh, yes—in Wrexham we seemed to do so much more of that than here. And dancing, too. I love to dance. More than once Lady Meller and even Sir Meller surprised us in the hall and joined us in a romp around the floor."
You make England sound very democratic," he said blandly. "And yet when I was privileged to visit a very fine country house in Suffolk the year before last, it did not se
em so to me. I would be walking through the house, minding my own business, and if I happened to come upon a servant—bam! Face to the wall she would go, flattening herself away from me. What do you say to that? And why are you so protective of the British, anyway? You're Irish, after all."
"I'm from the south," she said quietly. "There is not the hostility there. In any case, Lady Meller was always extremely kind to my family and me. I have no cause to resent the English."
"Then why did you leave?"
Tess looked away. "Father is adventurous," she answered lamely. After a pause she added, "There was some trouble. We had no choice."
"The fault could not have been yours," he said gently.
"What difference does it make? If there is bad blood, it runs through all our veins. It will out; if not now, then later." She reined herself in, too late.
"What a preposterous idea! I suppose it comes from being Catholic, this sense of doom and gloom. Here you are, a beautiful woman with a gentle manner and a thoughtful mind—and yet, you seem to consider yourself worthless at best, a possible rogue at worst."
"Not at all!"
"Why bother to deny it? You have let your own good opinion of yourself be destroyed by the grandes dames of Newport!"
"Ha. Not only by the women," she objected good-naturedly.
"But mostly the women. They have the power to grind their husbands to dust—men with the will and the resources to buy and sell half the planet. Where does that leave you in their regard? I'll tell you: to them you're less than human, an assembly of muscle and bone shipped to Newport for their convenience, along with the china and the plate."
"I see." Her eyes glittered, glazed over with tears. "And I suppose you are doing your utmost to raise my sense of self- worth."
"Admittedly, that was my intention," he said, suddenly conscious of his own vehemence. "I take it I've failed?"
"All in all, I think I prefer Miss Cornelia's cruelty to your kindness. But thank you for—well, for nothing," she said, suddenly angry with him for pointing out what every single day she tried to ignore. "Surely I'm keeping you? Is there not a box somewhere for you to stand on, a speech to make, a revolution to organize? That is, assuming you can find the time to tear yourself away from your picnics and your paté. Good afternoon, sir." She turned on her heel.
By The Sea, Book One: Tess Page 7