“Yes, ma’am. What would you like?”
She looked blank.
“Did you see the menu?”
The menu! She saw it now, a long, stiff card across from her on the table. She glanced at it without seeing any of the words: her eyes simply wouldn’t focus while the man in the white jacket was standing over her.
“The pepper pot soup’s always good,” he said helpfully. “And tonight there’s stewed snapper, very nice.”
“I’ll have that,” she told him, overcome with gratitude.
The bill for dinner froze her in her chair for a full minute. She hadn’t the courage to argue, but how could it be two dollars, how could it be? And a tip on top of that. She signed her name to the check wearily, aware that nearly a quarter of her Audubon windfall was already gone, and in ten days she’d have to vacate her house on the mountain and find another place to live. If Ty didn’t want her, how was she going to get through the winter? How could she keep her baby with no money?
The panic had never gotten this far before; she’d always beaten it down before it could surface and take over everything. She did it again now, but it was harder.
She drifted out of the restaurant, at a loss as to how to occupy herself until bedtime. She had a horror of looking as if she didn’t know what she was doing in front of the people sitting around the lobby in chairs. A walk would’ve soothed her, but she suspected such a thing wouldn’t be proper here, alone and at night. For all she knew, it might not even be safe.
She took a seat apart from the three other people who were sitting in the Reading Room, an alcove off the lobby with desks and chairs and a table covered with magazines and newspapers. One of the newspaper headlines caught her eye—”Roosevelt Says Pact Premature.” She felt a familiar shiver of pride, but this time it was mixed with anxiety. She, Carrie Catherine Wiggins Hamilton, had come to pay a call on a man who was personally acquainted with the vice president of the United States. She thrust the thought aside, because it would only make her crazy if she dwelled on it, and chose a Lippincott’s from among the Saturday Evening Posts and Ladies Home Journals.
She’d never read a Lippincott’s magazine but she’d seen them at Ty’s house often enough. Tonight the words ran together on the pages almost as bad as they had on the menu in the restaurant, as if they weren’t even in English, but some foreign language with different characters. When she forced herself to focus, she found an article on cats; here was one on women who had written novels in the eighteenth century; here was one on tea. Tea. She understood almost all the individual words in the essays; it was the tone that confounded her. Witty and bright, naturally, and book-learned clever. But underneath the wit and brilliance ran something she could barely put her finger on, some quality that wasn’t too far from nastiness. No, that was too strong. “Superior,” maybe that was it. Whatever it was, it lurked just under the smart, polished, tasteful phrases, and it implied to her, the reader, that having any other opinion on these odd subjects than the writer wanted her to meant not only that she was wrong but also that she was … lacking. And … pitiful.
Sophisticated—that was the word. Was this the way people in Ty’s family talked to each other? She thought it must be. So foreign, so exclusive. So hopeless. Depression weighed her down like a wet sheet.
On the way back to her room, she stopped at the desk and asked the clerk—a different one from the man this afternoon—if he could give her directions to Ty’s house, which was on Walnut Street. If he thought anything was funny about her asking, he didn’t show it in his face; he was very kind, and even drew her a map. His kindness provoked her to ask another question.
“I’m a stranger here, so I don’t know. Can you tell me the proper time to pay a call on people?”
“A social call, that would be?”
“Yes.”
“Ladies make what they call their morning visits between lunchtime and tea. That’s to say, between two and four o’clock.”
“They make their morning calls in the afternoon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He looked like he was telling the truth. “Well,” she said faintly. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome.”
Upstairs in her bright box of a room, she put on her nightgown and got in bed. She’d taken to rubbing her stomach when she was alone, even though it wasn’t big yet, just as a way to be close to the baby. Eppy said it was a girl because Carrie was still so small. Sometimes when she thought about it, that she was going to have a child of her own that she could take care of and love for the rest of her life, nothing else seemed to matter or be of any importance whatsoever. Even if she lost Ty—and she had, she really had reconciled herself to that; it was only in crazy, unguarded moments that she let herself imagine something else—she thought she could still be happy. She’d always have his child, his little son or daughter. Whatever it was, they’d be friends, she and her baby, and neither of them would ever be lonely. She fell asleep dreaming about a beautiful child, with dark brown hair and eyes the violet-blue of gentians.
Ty’s house was made out of marble. The word “villa” came to Carrie’s mind as she stood on the far corner and gazed across Nineteenth Street at the three-story mansion behind the spiked iron fence. Through the posts she could see a neat tangle of wisteria and grapevines, roses, honeysuckle, and clematis. All dormant now, but how beautiful the garden would be in the spring. In any but this cold winter light the marble would glow almost gold, like honey, and look warm and hospitable even with its mighty columns and stately front porch—which even she knew enough to call a portico. And, Lord God in heaven, in a minute she had to go up and knock at the front door.
Christmas was in three days. A little while ago some men had driven a cart up to the curb and carried in the tallest balsam tree she’d ever seen that wasn’t still growing in the ground. And just now a man with a black case had knocked on the door and been let inside. A doctor? She didn’t think he looked like one, despite the case. A repairman, maybe. Was some affair going on in the house? Most of the fine arched windows were lit up. But it was a dreary day; maybe the Wilkeses just liked lots of light.
Ty’s in there right now. In a few minutes you’ll see him. He’ll see you.
That was not the way to work her courage up. If she did everything one minute at a time and didn’t look ahead farther than the one minute she was in, maybe she could get through this. She noticed her feet weren’t moving, though. It was starting to snow; she was freezing. The feather on her smart new hat would be ruined if she didn’t get moving. She stepped off the curb and went toward Ty’s house.
She could hardly hear her first knock herself; her second sounded much too loud. She was expecting a servant, but when the wide door swung open, a young woman about her own age stood beside it. She said “Hello” with a friendly smile, and she was about to say more when an older woman’s voice called out from behind her, “Is it the piano tuner?”
“No, Mother, he’s already here. I think it’s—” She turned back, the smile widened, and Carrie knew it was Ty’s sister. “Are you from the caterer’s?” she asked.
She felt her face go slack. What was a “caterer”? “No, I’m … no.”
“No,” Abbey echoed, kind brown eyes taking a closer look. “I beg your pardon.” She opened the door wider in invitation. “Will you come in? You must be freezing.”
The house was even more beautiful than the outside had prepared her for. She couldn’t take it all in at a glance, she’d need a long time to really see the curving shape of the entrance hall, the gigantic fireplace burning on the wood-paneled wall in front of her, the chandelier, big as the crown of a dogwood tree, shining directly over her head. Everywhere there was scurrying and bustle, maids trotting this way and that, somebody winding fresh pine boughs around the banister rails, the sound of piano scales from another room.
She’d come at a bad time.
Abbey was watching her with friendly interest. Carrie wet her li
ps and said in a low voice, “I’ve come to see Dr. Wilkes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, he’s not here.”
“Will he be coming back soon?”
“He hasn’t come home yet, he won’t be here until the day after tomorrow. We expected him last week, but he’s been delayed.”
“The day after tomorrow. I see.” She felt the way she had that time Petey accidentally butted her in the chest and knocked her on her back.
A woman appeared in the great arch of a doorway off to the left. Abbey turned toward the woman and said, “Mother, this lady’s come to see Ty.”
“Has she?” Mrs. Wilkes glided forward, smiling cordially, holding out her hand. “How do you do, I’m Tyler’s mother.”
“How do you do?” Had she shaken too hard? Should she have taken her glove off first? “I’m Car—I’m Catherine Hamilton.” She felt glad with all her heart to have such a fine-sounding name to give to this stately, dignified lady. Formidable—the perfect word. She was tall, with wide shoulders and a deep bosom, and she carried herself like an old-fashioned ship’s figurehead. Carrie could see Ty in her strong-featured face, especially in the chin and around the mouth. She had hair the color of new pewter, dressed to perfection in a style Carrie had seen in pictures but never before on a real person.
“You’ve missed my son by two days, Miss Hamilton,” she said with her queen’s smile. “That’s what all this madness is about, incidentally—Tyler’s welcome-home party.”
“I thought he would be here by now,” Carrie murmured.
Mrs. Wilkes’s perfect eyebrows went up ever so slightly. “Yes, so did we all; we only had the cable a few days ago that he’d been delayed in Havana, some business about a final report. But let’s not stand in the hall—come into the drawing room, Miss Hamilton, won’t you? We were just having an early tea. Will you join us?”
“Yes, do come in. I’m Abbey, by the way, Ty’s sister. Are you a friend of his?”
Not quite knowing what else to do, Carrie let herself be gently towed through the high doorway and into another awesome room, the drawing room, she supposed, this one lined with crimson satin panels on all four walls, with a glittering mirror that went from the mantel all the way up to the ceiling. Abbey made her take off her coat and sit in a soft, high-backed chair near the fire. She brought her a cup of tea herself, took a seat nearby, and repeated her question.
“I knew Dr. Wilkes in Wayne’s Crossing,” she answered carefully.
“Really?” Her lovely, animated face lit up. “Ty wrote to us about some of the people he knew there. There was the girl who couldn’t speak—remember, Mother? What was her name?”
“I can’t recall,” said Mrs. Wilkes, tapping her cheek with her finger. Mother and daughter looked at Carrie expectantly. She couldn’t open her mouth.
“And a doctor, the one he replaced,” Abbey went on after a curious pause. “He sounded like quite a character.”
“Dr. Stoneman,” Carrie said faintly. “He’s back from the sanatorium in Harrisburg now, and almost all well. Dr. Wilkes insisted he go, so it’s really his doing that Dr. Stoneman’s so much better.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him so,” Mrs. Wilkes said graciously. “And there was another gentleman he spoke fondly of, a journalist, I believe.”
“Mr. Odell. Yes, they were friends.” She set her untouched cup down, afraid her shaking hands would give her away if she held onto it another second. These kind ladies were trying so hard to put her at ease, she wanted to weep. She ought to leave, but they’d taken her coat and she didn’t know what to say to get it back.
“Excuse me.” A maid poked her head in the door. “Telephone call for you, Miss Abbey.”
“Who is it, Irene?”
“It’s Miss Adele.”
Abbey shot her mother an apologetic glance and stood up. She had on a rose-colored gown cut in a style that hadn’t hit Wayne’s Crossing yet. Carrie thought she looked exactly like a fashionable clothes model in a magazine, only friendlier. “I’m sorry, Mother, Miss Hamilton—would you excuse me, please?” She continued in a wry, private voice to her mother, “Del’s lost her mind, I think, she’s so excited about the party. I’m sure this is another call with regard to the suitability of her sapphire crepe de chine versus her cream silk moire. I promise I’ll only be a moment.” She danced out.
It didn’t last long, but to Carrie the silence between her and Mrs. Wilkes was dreadful. She broke it in a panic by blurting out, “You have a beautiful house.”
“Thank you. I’ve lived here since my marriage—over half my life. It’s been a happy house, by and large. I look forward to seeing my grandchildren in it one day soon.”
Carrie hummed something, staring straight ahead.
“That was my grandfather.”
She started, and realized she’d been staring at a dark oil painting on the opposite wall, a portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman in a gray wig.
“Eustice Morrell,” Mrs. Wilkes said fondly. “He was a Princeton man, although he read law right here in Philadelphia. People seemed to mature at a younger age in those days, don’t you think, Miss Hamilton? My grandfather was secretary to the American minister in Paris by the time he was twenty-two. He attended Napoleon’s coronation—can you imagine? President Monroe appointed him a director of the Bank of the United States, where he had a brilliant career.”
Carrie murmured politely.
“But duty called, and eventually he allowed his friends to persuade him to take a seat in the United States Senate.” She smiled slightly. “No doubt it sounds vainglorious, but I think of my grandfather as the last true representative of the Enlightenment.”
Carrie gazed back at her. She understood the sense if not the reference, and could think of nothing to say in response.
Mrs. Wilkes waved her hand in a graceful little circle and laughed gently at herself. “I beg your pardon, what foolishness I’m talking. It’s Tyler’s homecoming that’s brought on all this nostalgia, I believe. You’ll forgive a mother’s boastfulness, but we have hopes for Tyler that would make his great-grandfather proud of him.” She leaned forward a little in her chair. “He’s coming home a hero, you know. We think it’s the perfect time to launch his career.”
“His career?”
“In politics,” she said lightly.
“And does T—does Dr. Wilkes want a career in politics?”
Mrs. Wilkes sat back. “I was referring to friends, people who can advise him. My son can become anything to which he sets his mind. One day he’ll be a great man.”
“Yes. Yes, I believe it, too.” Carrie looked back at the portrait of Eustice Morrell, and this time she fancied she could see a resemblance to Ty in his ancestor’s high forehead and the bones behind his clever blue eyes. The silence between her and Mrs. Wilkes rushed back, but this time it didn’t sound dreadful; just hopeless. A log in the fireplace broke apart, sending up a flurry of sparks. Carrie stood up. “I have to go,” she said quietly. “Thank you for receiving me.”
Abbey came into the room and stopped. “Oh, are you leaving already? I’d have hung up sooner if I’d known you couldn’t stay.”
Carrie’s coat appeared; soon she found herself in the hall by the door, with Abbey reaching impulsively for her hands.
“Excuse me—but you’re quite all right, aren’t you? Not ill?” Her fine eyes looked troubled.
An awful, humiliating urge to cry came over Carrie in a wave, but she beat it back. “Thank you,” she murmured, “I’m just fine.”
“Will you come to our party on Friday?”
She gave Abbey’s soft, girlish hands a farewell squeeze and stepped back. “I’m going home tonight.”
“Oh.” She looked truly disappointed. “Have you a message for Ty?”
There was a pause, and even to Carrie it sounded queer and forlorn. She was aware that the two ladies were looking at her strangely. “No,” she finally managed to say. “There isn’t any message.”
“I’ll jus
t tell him Miss Hamilton called, then, shall I?” asked Mrs. Wilkes.
“Yes, tell him Miss Hamilton called.” She did her best to smile then, to hide her sorrow because she’d never meet these women again. “Tell him—I was passing through and wanted to express to him the gratitude of the town for all he did for us. And say … no, that’s all.” She turned away hurriedly, and passed through the door and down the flagstone walk.
23
EUSTICE MORRELL LOOKED MORE pompous than usual, and that was saying something.
Through the half-closed library door, Tyler contemplated his great-grandfather’s florid, smug-faced portrait, lording it over the heads of half a hundred party guests milling around in the high-ceilinged drawing room. Don’t look too satisfied, he warned his ancestor gloomily. You’ve got me now, but in two days I’ll be gone, and not a damn thing either one of you can do about it.
Either one of you meant Eustice and Ty’s mother; he always thought of them as in cahoots, partners in the life-long struggle to turn him into something he didn’t want to be. After almost thirty years, though, he could see the battle winding down. This ill-conceived welcome-home party was his mother’s last stand, the final, formal skirmish in a long war. Sensing victory, Tyler could afford to be gracious.
Carolivia might not call hiding out by himself in the library the behavior of a gracious winner. He could see her point. He needed a minute, though, and Main Line Philadelphia could survive without him for that long. His mother’s guest list was long on influential political connections, but it was even longer on youthful, unattached females. He eyed without interest the ladies drifting past the door to his sanctuary, sumptuous-looking in their bright gowns and elegant hairstyles. They all looked the same to him, indistinguishable versions of eligibility. He couldn’t keep his eyes focused on them. Was it a good thing or a bad thing that he had no picture of Carrie? Good, if it kept him from thinking about her. But it didn’t.
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