Of course my father was making a joke. He had his family fortune to fall back on, as had his father before him, and his father’s father before that. My father often commented on how interesting it was, how money kept begetting more money. If he never wrote another word as long as he lived, he would want for nothing. None of us would. Although his joke did make me wonder something I’d never thought to wonder about before: did his novels make him any money?
Now Mother had both eyes open, and they were both looking at Aunt Helen.
“It went exceedingly well, I thought,” she said. “I was very proud of you.”
I felt that now familiar frisson of jealousy I sometimes experienced when Mother bestowed a great compliment on Aunt Helen, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come when I realized how happy I was for Aunt Helen and even more when I considered the alternatives: What would the aftermath to the party have been if things had not gone well? Would Aunt Helen have been forced to remain in hiding in the house forever or even possibly been forced to go?
“Elizabeth Carson did have a sour expression on her face all evening,” my father said, making one of his own. “I have never been overly fond of that woman.”
“Your sister was not much better,” Mother said wryly.
“No, she was not,” my father said. “I wonder why that was?”
“Perhaps she ate something that disagreed with her,” Mother suggested.
I knew then that Mother had never shared with him the details of that visit Aunt Martha had made to the house several months back, the one during which she had suggested that Aunt Helen might be dangerous, that Aunt Helen should be told to leave.
True, Aunt Martha had left herself that day on bad terms. But it seemed an odd thing to me for a wife to hold back from her husband.
And my father’s own attitude made it obvious that Aunt Martha had never shared her concerns about Aunt Helen with him. Perhaps Mother’s own disapproval had somehow tempered her usual instinct toward outspokenness?
The servant returned with the requested breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast with butter and jam, orange juice—and set it out on the low table. If the servant wondered how they intended to eat this meal without the benefit of the usual dining room table, her expression did not betray as much.
Aunt Helen sat forward on the sofa, picked up one of the plates, balanced it on her knees.
“So we are agreed,” she said, “that with the exception of a pair of disgruntled guests, everything else went according to plan?”
“Outside of those two exceptions,” my father said, “it could not have gone better, I shouldn’t think.”
“I am glad you think so, Frederick,” Aunt Helen said. “And now that we have the success of the party behind us, perhaps you could answer a question for me.”
My father merely raised his eyebrows at her.
“A few weeks prior to the party, you dispatched Mr. Brockburn,” Aunt Helen said. “On his last day, he asked Lucy if he might have a word with you. At dinner that evening, I asked you what that word was about but you would not say. Instead, you said we needed to talk about the party you proposed. Now that party is behind us and I am returning to the subject of Mr. Brockburn. What was that word?”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes. That.”
“Do you know, Helen, if you ever grow tired of your life of leisure here, I do think you would make a fine solicitor.” He considered this. “Of course, your gender might get in the way.”
“I assume there is a compliment buried in there somewhere,” Aunt Helen said, “but I don’t care to dig for it at this time. You are evading the question.”
Could one party change a person so much? I hardly remembered ever hearing anybody hold their ground in such a way against my father. Certainly Mother never had. And yet, judging from my father’s expression, he was rather enjoying what for him must have been a novel experience.
“It is simply this,” my father said. “Mr. Brockburn wished my permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”
A marriage proposal from the schoolmaster!
I shot a look at Mother. Her expression revealed shock as great as I felt. So, just as she had been keeping secrets from my father, he had been keeping secrets from her.
Aunt Helen’s expression was not shocked. It was severe.
“Don’t you think you should have told me of this offer before now,” she asked with ice in her tone, “instead of waiting weeks?”
My father took a bite of his toast, shrugged. “We had the party to plan.” Another shrug. “I thought it best to wait.”
“Would you even have said anything now if I had not brought it up first?”
My father’s shrug was his answer. He’d just as soon let it go.
“But I am an adult woman! This was an offer for me!”
“You live under my roof, my protection. All such offers must come through me.” He considered this. “I do hope this won’t become a regular thing, suitors knocking at my door to ask for your hand.”
My father’s words might have appeared pompous on the surface, but what he spoke was accurate: He was the man. This was his house. We all lived at his whim. And we all knew it. Or at least, most of us did.
“And did you also answer the proposal for me?” Aunt Helen said through gritted teeth.
My father appeared surprised at this. “Oh, no. That would hardly be my place to decide for you, would it? Although I do have my opinions on the matter.”
Aunt Helen glared at him some more. I think now the heat of that glare must have proved too much for him, for he picked up his plate, rising.
“I have some work to do,” my father said. “Perhaps, anyway, this is something you would do best to discuss with Aliese.”
No sooner had my father’s shadow passed from the room than Aunt Helen turned on Mother.
“I suppose you’ve known about it all this time too?” she demanded.
“I swear to you, I would never keep such a thing from you!”
“No,” Aunt Helen practically muttered, “I suppose that you would not.”
Then her expression suddenly lightened, and she let out a loud laugh.
“You know,” she said, “this is the first invitation of marriage I have ever received!” And, just as quickly, her expression soured again. “Well, I did not receive it,” she added. “Frederick did.”
“Never mind all that now,” Mother said in a soothing voice. “What do you think of it?”
The silence that stretched out after this question was a lengthy one. It was long enough for me to consider what I thought about it.
So Mr. Brockburn, the schoolmaster, had asked for Aunt Helen’s hand!
I had never thought much before on the idea of people falling in love. I read books, so I knew that it happened. But the only real-life story of such a thing that I knew about was the story Aunt Martha used to tell me about Mother and my father’s first meeting.
What was it like, I wondered now, being in love? Would I ever experience it?
I could see, of course, why Mr. Brockburn loved Aunt Helen. She was beautiful, like Mother. More than that, in her own way, she was full of life.
“What do you think of it?” Aunt Helen asked now, turning the question back on Mother.
Mother blew out a breath, surprised to be consulted. “I am not sure I know. I suppose you could do far worse. Mr. Brockburn is a nice man.”
“He is the schoolmaster.”
“Which also means he is more intelligent than most men. At the very least, he knows more about a variety of subjects.”
“He is the schoolmaster.”
“He cuts a handsome figure. Not to mention, it must have taken a great deal of bravery on his part to approach Frederick in this fashion. He must love you a great deal.”
“And he will always be the schoolmaster.”
“Then he is not good enough for you?”
“I did not necessarily say that. But he would not be good enough for you, would he
?” Aunt Helen said. “Then why should he be good enough for me?”
“Then you do not like him?”
“Did I say that? Of course I like him. But he is—”
“I know.” Mother cut her off. “He is the schoolmaster.”
“Yes,” Aunt Helen said.
“Then you should tell Frederick to tell him no,” Mother said.
“Yes,” Aunt Helen said again. And then she smiled. “But it is nice, to be asked.”
Poor Mr. Brockburn.
I wondered about something my father had said earlier: would there be other men, more suitable suitors who would call on Aunt Helen?
I thought about what Aunt Helen had said the day Aunt Martha visited, something about women who never married being the worst kind.
Aunt Helen was now thirty-two and yet she had never married. Was she prepared to become one of “the worst kind”?
• Fourteen •
A few days later, Victoria Tyler, the new neighbor from next door, came to pay a courtesy call. She wanted to thank Mother for including her family in our family’s celebration. In Mrs. Tyler’s company was the boy she had brought to the party, her son, the bored yet oddly intriguing boy known as Kit.
Our home had seen several callers since the night of the party. Apparently the neighborhood, in the persons of Mrs. Carson and Mary Williams and others, wanted to see Aunt Helen up close, learn more of her history away from the pull of the crowd. So far Aunt Martha, despite having told Mrs. Carson she would keep a closer eye on things, had kept away.
“What a lovely home you have, Mrs. Sexton,” Mrs. Tyler said, having been led into the front parlor.
“Thank you,” Mother said, “but I am Mrs. Sexton.”
Mrs. Tyler had mistakenly addressed her remark to Aunt Helen. Really, the only thing to tell the women apart now were their dresses, and a person needed a knowledge of both ladies’ wardrobes to be able to pull off that trick. Not to mention, ever since the day I had seen Aunt Helen in my father’s study, wearing one of Mother’s gowns, they did occasionally share things for variety.
“I am sorry,” Mrs. Tyler said, blushing so furiously her cheeks nearly matched the color of her hair. “It’s just that you are both—”
“It is an easy mistake to make,” Aunt Helen said with a pleased smile. “Sometimes, when I look in my mirror, I don’t even know which of us I am seeing.”
“Is it ever disconcerting for Mr. Sexton?” Mrs. Tyler asked. If anyone else had asked such a question, it would no doubt have come across as nosy. But coming from Mrs. Tyler, who in every way seemed one of the most sincere women I had ever met, it smacked of pure intellectual curiosity, not intrusion. It was a shame, I thought, that her son did not share her winning disposition.
“Not at all,” Aunt Helen spoke for both of them. “My brother-in-law can easily tell us apart. He knows me to be the outspoken one.”
I did not like this very much. It cast Mother as some sort of mouse by comparison.
“And he knows me,” Mother said evenly, “as any man knows his own wife.”
Good show, Mother! I could not help but think to myself.
All this time, the boy, that annoyingly bored Kit boy, had said nothing.
“Lucy,” Mother instructed, “why don’t you entertain Kit while we ladies talk?”
I did not know why I must be called upon to be an ambassador of …entertainment, but Mother did not look as though she were in any mood to hear an argument on this. And, indeed, I suppose it would have been rude of me to make one just then.
I realized I did not know how to talk to someone close to my own age, particularly a boy. And something about this boy made me want to be rude.
“Did you enjoy playing with the other children the night of the party?” I taunted Kit now.
“Not particularly,” he said. “They all seemed very immature to me.”
“That is funny,” I said. “I would have thought that would have suited you perfectly well.”
“I suppose you need to work on your needlepoint while the ladies talk?” Kit all but sneered at me. “Isn’t that what girls are supposed to do?”
“Needlepoint?” I sneered right back. It took everything in me not to stamp my foot. Needlepoint?! “I do not do needlepoint,” I said, grudgingly adding, “or at least, not unless someone makes me.” I folded my arms across my chest. As my arms brushed against my breasts I felt instantly self-conscious for the first time in my life of having a body that was distinctly different from that of half the world’s population. I pushed the feeling aside. “How about a game of chess?”
“Chess?”
“Yes. Chess. Is there something wrong with your hearing? That night at the party, you said it was a game you liked to play. We have a set.” I indicated with an airy wave of my hand the table in the corner, upon which was still the game caught in mid-play that my father and I had been battling over the night before. “Why don’t we play?”
“Very well.” He took white’s seat without asking my preference, leaving me to black.
He studied the board from last night’s game.
He let out a low whistle. “White really has black’s back against the wall here.”
“White was the color I played last,” I said imperiously, sweeping the men from the board.
In truth, I had not been playing white the night before.
Why had I lied? Why did I want Kit to think better of my …chess prowess? What did I care what he thought?
“I’m sorry.” He looked embarrassed as he started to rise from his chair. “I should have asked first which you preferred before sitting down.”
“Sit. Sit!” I waved my hand at him impatiently. “What do I care if I play black or I play white? I am good at either. I excel at both. Why, only just recently I played black.” “Just recently,” as in “last night,” a voice in my head taunted. I sought for something appropriately scathing to say, at last settling on something I’d heard my father say before: “What does such triviality matter to me?”
Without waiting for another word out of him, I commenced setting up the board as he retook his seat.
To say that he beat me would be to state the case mildly.
. . . . .
I was tempted to overturn the table.
Indeed, if I did not know that Mother would censure me greatly for this, I would have done so in an instant.
“You played that very well,” Kit said.
“What are you talking about?” I bit off the words. “I lost.”
“Yes, well, perhaps that part wasn’t so very impressive. But up until that point”—he shined a smile at me, the first I had ever received from him; it was a radiant thing—“you really played impressively!”
I folded my arms across my chest again. If Mother were paying attention, she would have accused me of slouching in my seat. If my father were in the room, he would tell Mother that I needed to be taught deportment and all that other nonsense all over again.
“I did not play as well as you.” I sulked.
“Not today.” He shrugged. “But you might, in time. I don’t see why you shouldn’t. After all, I am older than you. I have had more years to practice.”
“That’s a nice about-face,” I said, “given your previous snide comments about ‘needlepoint.’ ”
In truth, I did think it was a nice about-face. But there was no reason why he should know I thought that.
“I’m sorry.” He shrugged. “We hadn’t played chess yet when I made those comments. I take them back now. I think having you next door will be as good as having another boy.”
Five minutes ago, I would have taken offense at this … loudly. Now I chose to take it in the spirit in which it was intended.
“Thank you.” I bowed my head slightly. “Did you know that chess is the oldest skill game of record?”
“Oh, yes,” he said eagerly. “Backgammon is older, but it is a game based on luck.”
“Well, then, speaking of backgammon, did you
also know that backgammon was first mentioned in print in The Codex Exoniensis of 1025? Or that it was originally called ‘nard’ or ‘tables’? Or that it was banned for a time as being gaming—which, of course, it is in a sense, being a game—until Elizabeth the First brought it back?”
“No, no, and no!” he said enthusiastically. “I knew none of those things!”
“It is one of the chief advantages of being a novelist’s daughter,” I said with feigned hauteur. Then I could not stop myself from adding with a smile, “I am forced to listen to all manner of boring trivia whenever my father is doing research.”
“I’ve never met another girl like you.” He shrugged. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
“How do you mean?” I was wary, as though an insult might be hiding in his remark, ready to jump at me at any moment.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said. “It’s little things, like how interestingly different you are, so much so that even when you insult me, I don’t mind.” He shrugged get again. “If I could explain it to myself, I’d explain it to you.”
Then he looked over both shoulders, as though checking to see if anyone was listening in on our conversation.
They weren’t. As far as I could tell, the three ladies were talking about flowers or fashion, perhaps both.
“Do you know,” Kit whispered, leaning across the table, “our houses are connected?”
“What,” I said witheringly, “are you talking about now?”
“All right,” he said, blushing. “I’m not entirely certain, but I think it’s possible that both houses once belonged to one family and that there is a connecting tunnel underground.”
If it weren’t for the fact that I hesitated to touch him, I would have leaned across the table in turn, placing my palm against his forehead to check for fever. As it were, I settled for:
“Of course there isn’t! I’ve lived here my whole entire life!”
“Shh!” he cautioned me, which I must say, I found annoying. Still, I continued in a whisper:
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