What Love Sees

by Susan Vreeland

“But it’s too small,” Tready teased. “After you pile all your clothes in there, you won’t have any space for your golf clubs.”

  The boys swarmed around the car and lifted the hood to look at the engine, and no one noticed that Jean was smoking. Conversation swirled around her but nobody talked to her.

  “Do you know where you’re going yet, Cookie?” Tready asked.

  “Skidmore. To study art. It’ll be heavenly. Have you heard yet?”

  “Yes, Sweetbriar.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In Virginia.”

  “You’ll come home talking like a southern belle on the arm of some handsome, slow-talking great-grandson of a confederate general, and poor Jack will be forgotten.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about poor Jack. Poor Jack’s headed for Harvard.”

  “Did you hear that Mavis got accepted at Knox? Her first choice. Because of the riding program.”

  Jean wished she could sink into the grass. She prayed she wouldn’t have to say she hadn’t been accepted anywhere. In fact, it looked like she didn’t even have enough credits to graduate. The afternoon stretched long and her feet hurt, but she didn’t know where a chair was and didn’t want to call attention to herself by asking. High school ended with a fizzle.

  That summer the Hill girls visiting the Treadway pool talked incessantly about college. Jean swam laps, climbed out at the far end of the pool and lay down out of earshot on the narrow strip of coping between the pool and the grass. The hot cement warmed her stomach and the sun dried her back. It was comforting. More than the water separated her from them. She’d never really be one of them, no matter what Father or Mother would do. She knew why Father had the pool built, so friends would come to visit her on her own home territory, where she could move freely. No other Hill family had a pool. Oh yes, Father could do a lot to build a nice little world for her here, but he couldn’t get her admitted to a school.

  It would be wonderful to be going away to school, to live with other girls, go to mixers at boys’ schools, be out in the world, dance. She was a good dancer. Following somebody’s lead was easy. A cloud went by and she felt gooseflesh on the back of her legs. Of course she’d have to study there, but that was okay. She could get along.

  From across the water someone must have said something funny—she didn’t know what—and the girls laughed. All their lives were expanding. Hers wasn’t. Maybe never would. She turned her face in the opposite direction.

  The next day a letter came from the Masters School in Dobbs Ferry. Mother had been writing to prep schools, finishing schools, universities, anywhere that might take her. Mother’s voice fell when she read the response. “Although we realize that Jean Treadway would be an able candidate for our school, we regret that we are unable to accommodate a young lady in her position.”

  Why don’t they just say it? Blind. She heard Mother fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope.

  “Well, at least they were polite,” Mother said flatly.

  “Careful, I’d call it,” Jean said. “Was that the last one?”

  “The last I wrote to, but maybe an education editor of some magazine, Vogue maybe, would know of some smaller school that might be more flexible. I’ll keep writing.”

  Jean wandered through the house and out to the verandah. The humidity hung heavy. Like time, she thought. She lifted her hair from the nape of her neck where it felt sticky. Then she let it flop down again and her shoulders sagged. She knew she was a problem now that high school was over. Of course she probably could go back to Bristol High. They hadn’t given her a diploma so she hadn’t officially graduated. No, that would be too humiliating. And she still wouldn’t be able to do math and science. So here it was, the great family dilemma—what to do with Jean. She came back inside and sat at the piano. Her fingers touched the keys without purpose. She wondered what Lorraine was doing. Working, probably. And Icy. She hadn’t seen her for ages.

  Summer inched along. One evening she overheard the family in the library.

  “Her life should be altered as little as possible.”

  “Father, you don’t always have to make her life so normal,” Lucy said. “I wish she could do something special.”

  A lump exploded in her throat. It was a brave thing to say to Father.

  Toward the end of summer, Mother’s voice was urgent when she read the return address, “Andrebrook, Tarrytown-on-Hudson, New York.”

  “What is it?”

  “A small, very small, academic finishing school. ‘Certainly, we are delighted to accept Miss Jean Treadway and expect her to arrive Thursday, September 10, between the hours of two and four in the afternoon. Cordially, Miss Lillian Clark Weaver, Headmistress.’”

  Chapter Six

  On September 10, Father directed Vincent, the new chauffeur, to turn the car left into a driveway. Instinctively Jean put out her right hand to brace for the turn. It seemed a long time before the car slowed down.

  “It must be a big place,” she said.

  “Big for a house. Small for a school. It’s set back from the street a long way. Two story, a white colonial,” Father said.

  “I think it’s Greek revival, dear,” Mother said.

  “Yes, indeed. It has Corinthian columns.”

  “They’re Doric, dear.”

  The Packard limousine pulled up to the porte-cochere behind a row of tulip trees.

  “Do you see anybody?”

  “Some lanky woman who looks like a giraffe is walking over here,” Father said.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Miss Reynolds, the secretary. Won’t you please come in? Miss Weaver will see you in the drawing room.”

  Lillian Clark Weaver greeted them with a low, gruff voice, but her words were kind enough. She was quick, even brusque, as if she’d always be in control. Just Father’s type. It sounded like she wore clumpy, old lady shoes, too. When Jean groped for a chair, Miss Weaver smoothly moved one right within reach, without losing a beat in her explanation of the rules of the school.

  “All girls are to speak French exclusively until after one o’clock lunch every day, except during classes. Demerits shall be given for disobedience of this practice.”

  Criminee, Jean thought. At least I don’t have to spell it.

  “Accumulated demerits will prevent girls from going on outings.”

  Like what, she wondered. Anything I could do too?

  “Girls will dress for dinner. On Sundays their dinner attire shall be a floor-length gown.”

  Tready would fit right in here, she thought. “How many girls are there?” she asked.

  “Thirteen this year. At Andrebrook, education isn’t a mass process. We give a thorough, adult background in the liberal arts. Do you know what field of study you would like to pursue?”

  “Physiology.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” She cleared her throat and sat down at a large antique desk. “Let’s keep thinking.” Deftly Miss Weaver steered her to a course of study heavy in literature and languages. “I think this is adequate, don’t you, Mr. Treadway? French, German, world literature, music history, piano, and western civilization.” Miss Weaver stood up without pausing for his response. “Now I’ll show you the buildings and grounds.”

  She led them through the first-floor rooms. “We use these sitting rooms as classrooms, since classes are sometimes only three or four students. Larger classes are held in the library.”

  “What’s this room?” Jean asked.

  “The dining room.”

  “It smells like sweet peas.”

  “It has French doors opening onto a terrace,” Mother explained. “How light and airy.”

  Miss Weaver led them outside. “We often eat lunch out here in good weather.”

  “What a lovely garden. Jean, there’s a rose arbor around a sun dial,” Mother said. “And a wide lawn with Italian cedars at the edges. You remember what they look like, don’t you? What’s that behind those wisteria vines?”

  “Tennis
courts.”

  “It looks like a stable out there beyond the grass, too.”

  “Yes, and around to the right there’s a riding ring,” Miss Weaver added. “Girls will ride every day after classes at two o’clock, except on the groom’s day off. Andrebrook girls are permitted to ride on the Rockefeller estate bridle paths through the Pocantico Hills. They can pick up the trails right across the street. Girls will also be instructed in polo by our riding master, Herr Frederich.”

  “Jean’s doctor has not permitted her to ride,” Mr. Treadway interjected. “He fears more damage because of the jolts.”

  “Unfortunate. See what can be done to get permission for her. We don’t want her to be left out. Certainly she can learn to ride.”

  Jean tried not to smile. Nobody had ever talked to Father that way.

  “Life is to be lived, not merely observed,” she went on. Jean was bowled over. She’d give anything to have seen Father’s expression. Saying goodbye to him, she felt breezy and lightheaded.

  Two days later they had an orientation week at Mohonk, a private lake where they stayed at an old fashioned hotel, “just like in Switzerland,” Miss Weaver said. They left the cars five miles below the lake and arrived by horse and buggy in time for afternoon tea. It was fun, but the bounces hurt her rear end.

  “I’ve taken my girls to Mohonk to begin every fall term since I started Andrebrook in 1920,” Miss Weaver said. “You’ll get acquainted more quickly here.”

  They soon learned the real reason: Miss Weaver loved to hike.

  “What’s she look like?” Jean whispered to another girl as they gathered the next morning for a hike.

  “Silly, actually,” said a girl named Sally Anne. “She’s got on heavy hiking boots, knickers, long wool stockings, and a sweater tied around her middle.”

  “And white frizzy hair and a funny wool hat,” said another.

  “She walks like a man, with huge steps.”

  “Must be the picture of outdoor vigor,” Jean said.

  Miss Weaver paired Jean with a girl named Dody Rollins and set off along the lakeside at a good clip, talking as fast as she was walking. She told them wonderful tales of former Andrebrook girls, of going to opera in New York and of traveling in Europe during the summer, of skiing Cortina and mountain climbing in the Dolomites, of producing Shakespearean comedies and of going to dances at military academies. Jean wondered how she could ever fit in. Icy would love it. It surprised her that she thought of Icy again. Maybe because she was hiking in the woods with a group of girls again. Maybe because being here without Icy, or anyone she knew, she felt alone, far more alone than she ever felt the first days at Camp Hanoum. She wished she wouldn’t be so shy, but she didn’t know how not to be.

  The thirteen girls marched along surrounding Miss Weaver. Holding onto Dody’s arm with an iron grip, Jean scrambled to keep up so she wouldn’t miss hearing anything, and so she wouldn’t call attention to herself. At the end of the hike everybody was breathing heavily, but Miss Weaver was still talking, with complete composure.

  “Tomorrow afternoon you are to explore the trails by yourself, all together. Certainly you will go with them, Jean,” she said, as if reading her mind.

  The next afternoon came before Jean was ready for it.

  At first the trails up hill were wide and smooth, easy enough to negotiate. Trooping along with others at Camp Hanoum had taught her how. She didn’t want to be a nuisance to the others so soon. But she felt the spirit of the girls’ new independence grow, and it made her apprehensive. Who knows where they would go? The trail became steeper and more uneven. It must have narrowed, too, because branches were closer on both sides. “Are we still on the main path?”

  “No,” someone answered.

  Then she felt a rock wall on one side. “Where are we?”

  “In some kind of a ravine.”

  “Where does it go?”

  “We can’t tell yet. Up.”

  She was determined not to cause them difficulty. Even though she stumbled every few steps, she tried to walk as close as she could to Dody ahead of her, one hand on Dody’s shoulder, the other feeling for the rock wall. Soon she discovered rock on both sides of her.

  She heard a weak, squeaky cry up ahead. “I’m stuck. I can’t move,” someone said. The others had to pull fat Mimi from the top and push her from the bottom to get her through the crevice. At least I won’t cause them that problem, Jean thought. Miss Weaver was right. They got acquainted fast.

  By keeping her hand out to the side and by putting one foot in front of the other, Jean made it through the narrow part. Eventually, they came to a wooden gazebo at the top of the hill and collapsed on the benches lining the perimeter.

  “We’re supposed to be able to see into four states from here,” said Dody, breathing hard, “but I can’t tell what I’m looking at.”

  “Look at that crooked little trail down there,” said another girl with a high voice. It sounded like Sally Anne. “Let’s see where it leads.”

  “Are you crazy?” someone shouted back.

  “Come on,” she insisted. “Just for a ways.”

  “What does it look like?” asked Jean.

  “It’s pretty precarious. Just wait here.”

  Jean did as she was told. The way they dismissed her so quickly hurt, but what was she to do? She wasn’t even sure who was talking.

  She followed the railing around the inside of the gazebo and sighed as she sat down on the bench to wait. Their voices got fainter and more indistinct until she couldn’t hear them at all. She had no sense of how much time was passing. It seemed long. She listened for birds, but there were no sounds except a breeze whooshing through trees. She didn’t even know what kind of trees. Even that would give her something to think about. She’d been afraid to ask too many questions. Icy would have told her without being asked. She stepped out of the gazebo under the sky to try to smell what kind. Nothing. She couldn’t tell. No warmth fell on her face or shoulders. The sun must be low.

  These were new friends. She knew none of them two days earlier. Maybe they had forgotten her. If they did, Miss Weaver would be furious, that much she knew. And then they’d resent her, and would have to drag her along just because they were told to.

  She’d have to earn their friendship, that was all. Her resolve solidified. She sure wasn’t going to spoil it right off by being a baby. Was friendship something everyone else had to work so hard for? She sat on the bench and waited. A lone bird sang but she couldn’t identify what kind. If Icy were here, she’d look it up in her bird book. For some time she listened to its chirpy melody. It reminded her of a passage in a Chopin etude Mother had taught her.

  A twig broke. When she heard voices, her breath came in a surge of relief. She stood up and wiped her damp palms on her hips. Someone said her name. Her name. At least that was something. “Boy, am I glad you came back,” was all she said. She made it a point to smile and look in the direction from which she heard her name.

  Chapter Seven

  The single chime signaled one o’clock. “Halleluia. No more French until tomorrow morning.” Jean heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’ve got to admit it is getting easier.” She remembered Miss Weaver’s standard, all-occasion line, “Of course you can. Just set your mind to it.”

  Elsa Flagstad slammed the book shut. “I’m never going to learn that frilly language. English is hard enough and I already speak good enough German.” Jean had been translating orally the French lessons into German for her. It gave her a sense of acceptance with at least one of the girls, but Elsa was different from the others, too. She was foreign. Maybe that was why Miss Weaver had them room together.

  “Is German anything like Norwegian?”

  “No, but all Norwegian children study German.”

  As with the study sessions with Lorraine back at Bristol High, Jean and Elsa couldn’t stick to the subject and fell into talk about other things, usually Elsa’s mother, Kirsten Flagstad, the Wagnerian
soprano making her debut at the Met that season. The world of music and opera librettos was far more interesting to both of them than conjugating French verbs in the pluperfect.

  Jean gathered up her music and made her way to the piano in the parlor. The room smelled of roses. Eventually, the other girls thumped down the stairway in their riding boots, heading for the stables and riding ring. “See ya later, Jean,” Dody called into the room. Dody always did. Most of the others just walked right by every day.

  For a moment after they passed, the room echoed with their footsteps. Then, alone again. She took a deep breath and started in on “Liebestraum.” It was a comforting melody but the awkward Braille music was slow going. She had to stop every few measures to read with her fingers. Maybe the Chopin etude Mother taught her last summer would be easier. She played the Chopin four times up to a point and each time the notes trailed off to nothing. Her hands dropped to her lap and she sat still for a long time. Always there was struggle. Always something separated her from the others. She drew her mouth inward.

  “What’s wrong, Jean?”

  It startled her even though Miss Weaver’s voice had a rare softness. She hadn’t known anyone was in the room. “I can’t remember. Mother taught me the whole thing. It took most of the summer. And now I can’t get beyond that measure.” She tried to make her voice sound casual.

  “I’ll investigate a professional teacher. I think I know of one in Manhattan who will take you. Maybe she can come once a week.”

  Miss Weaver’s thick heels clomped down the hall. “Thank you,” Jean said after her. But her words sounded weak. Just a fumbling thank you wasn’t enough. She knew Miss Weaver would find someone, too. When that woman made a decision, she always got results.

  At dinner the girls made up for what they didn’t say in French at lunch. Miss Reynolds—the girls called her Rene—sat at one table, Miss Weaver at the other.

  “LCW will start another book tonight, don’t you think?” Dody said to Rene. They had fallen into the habit of calling Miss Weaver by her initials. She didn’t seem to mind.