The Major's Daughter
Page 17
“What else do we have to do today?” Marie asked. “We can’t just sit around for the rest of our lives.”
“You’re the one who was moping all afternoon,” Amy said.
“I’ll dance,” Collie said, “but not forever . . . do you promise, Marie?”
Marie nodded and turned the music up louder. The windows stood wide open, but barely a touch of wind found them. It felt like rain coming. They had already watched the clouds forming, spotting shapes and animals in the thunderheads, but the rain refused to fall. Collie used a folded newspaper for a fan. The humidity clung to her and made her feel as though she wore a second skin.
“I’ll be the boy,” Marie said, standing in front of Collie with her arms open.
“It’s too hot,” Amy said, and fell back on the bed.
“You’re a funny-looking boy,” Collie said as she stepped into Marie’s arms, “but I’ll dance with you anyway.”
Marie counted them off, then pushed Collie away and made her spin. Collie burst out laughing and stopped.
“What dance are we doing?” Collie asked.
“You have to follow, that’s all.”
“But shouldn’t we have some idea of what we’re trying to do?”
“You wouldn’t ask that of a man, would you? That would be terribly rude. Now come on, you promised.”
It felt ridiculous at first, but gradually Collie found the fun in it. She allowed herself to be pushed away, spun, then nearly strangled in a complicated hand exchange that Marie had learned somewhere. Amy laughed and clapped from the bed. On the second dance, they both kicked off their shoes as a dark, gusty wind began pushing against the house.
A crack of lightning suddenly sprang across the Devil’s Slide and Amy let out a little whoop. Marie used the lightning as an excuse to dance faster. She began holding her finger up and wagging it, saying hidey-hidey ho over and over again, when suddenly she jerked Collie’s arm hard and pulled her to the window.
“Look!” she said.
“What?” Collie asked.
Amy jumped up from the bed and crowded to the window with them.
It took only a moment for Collie to see August running through the rain with his shirt off and his trousers in his hand. The men wore their khaki undershorts, but nothing else. Obviously his cutting team had been at the river for a swim when the rain hit. The American guards trotted behind them, fully clothed, their rifles held loosely in their arms. The men laughed and shouted; Marie pulled the girls down lower in the window so they could watch without being observed. Collie thought she had never seen men so free and wild. This is what they are like, she realized, when there are no women around. It felt as though they watched a herd of deer, or a flock of birds, and Collie felt enormous attraction.
August carried a bouquet of wildflowers in his right hand. For an instant he disappeared under the eave of the roof, and Collie heard his heavy tread on the porch stairs. An instant later he had returned to running with his mates. They greeted his brief departure with hoots and laughter. One man ran close to him and ruffled his hair. The American guards laughed, too, and then their voices mixed and became jumbled with the squish of muddy steps and the clink of a canteen. At last they passed down the road far enough so that they could not look back and catch them watching from the window.
“Men are always laughing at a joke I don’t understand,” Amy said, sitting on the bed again. “I comprehend English well enough, but it’s as if they speak a different language.”
“I’m going to run to the porch and get the bouquet,” Collie said.
She hurried down the stairs. The porch door stood open except for a screen, and Collie watched as water poured off the roof. It made a curtain, a prismatic sheen of dark light. She saw August’s bare wet footprints on the porch boards; the footprints shimmered in contrast to the wood when a stroke of lightning touched the mountainside. She found the bouquet on the glider. He could not leave a note, naturally, but he had tied the bottom of the bouquet with strands of grass, so that it did not fall apart when she lifted it to her nose. Wild black-eyed Susans, tansy, Queen Anne’s lace, a stalk of cornflower. She didn’t know all their names. Flowers from her suitor, she told herself. She carried the flowers quickly upstairs, where Marie examined them for hidden meaning. She made Collie pluck off the petals of the black-eyed Susans and repeat the ageless questions Love me? Love me not? while the rain fell in hurried gusts and the smell of the summer became locked in her memory.
“My father would kill me if he knew an Austrian soldier had delivered flowers to me,” Collie said. “I can’t encourage him. I should speak to him and tell him to stop.”
“Are you insane?” Marie asked, her voice riddled with disbelief. “It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. He thought of you and he didn’t mind showing all those other men that he wanted to bring you flowers! He’s perfect!”
“He’s German,” Amy said.
“Austrian,” Collie corrected, although she knew that wasn’t the point.
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” Amy said, turning down the music. “What does my father always say? A falling knife has no handle. Be careful, Collie. You may reach for something and it might cut your hand.”
“Oh, you’re as old as a dinosaur already!” Marie said. “I swear, what kind of old wet blanket are you?”
Amy smiled, but the corners of her mouth remained tight. Collie met her eyes and nodded.
• • •
“Thank you for agreeing to see me again,” Henry Heights said a week later from his seat in Mrs. Hammond’s parlor, his hat in his hand. “I can’t begin to apologize sufficiently for my brother and for our behavior the other night. It was unforgivable. My brother suffers from dipsomania. He cannot control himself when alcohol is present.”
“I understand. You’ve made that point.”
“He’s promised to get treatment. This last incident brought that plainly to light. His condition worsened after his return from the war. This is all a family matter, and I’m sure it’s tiresome to you, but he is not the man he was the other night. He’s changed from the war.”
Collie nodded, her gaze carefully assessing him. She granted that he had made a heartfelt apology. He had sent flowers twice, both times with accompanying notes asking to see her. He had also sent a note to Estelle, begging her forgiveness, but it had arrived too late. She had forwarded it to Ohio, and then Estelle had reported on the content. Collie still did not know what to make of the evening with Amos. It had been sordid and terrifying, certainly, but it had not been Henry’s fault. She believed he was as appalled by his brother’s behavior as he claimed to be.
He twirled his hat lightly in his hand. Collie heard Mrs. Hammond clank something in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. It was half past seven and dinner was over. Agnes occasionally passed through the room with a tray in her hand to set the breakfast table. Henry Heights fit his apology into the gaps when they were alone.
“I appreciate your good intention, Mr. Heights . . . ,” she said, but he cut her off.
“Henry, please.”
“All right, Henry then. I do appreciate your intention. I won’t say all is forgotten, because I won’t soon forget that evening, but I accept your apology. I can’t speak for Estelle, but I don’t suppose it matters. She won’t be back here again. We could have brought legal action against your brother.”
“Yes, I know.”
“If my father had known what jeopardy you placed us in, he would have taken serious action.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
Collie shook her head. She still wasn’t sure they had been correct to not inform her father or any authority. It seemed better at the time to put the entire evening out of their minds. Estelle refused to speak of it afterward.
“Give me another chance,” he said, then stopped when Agnes swung thro
ugh with a tray of silverware.
“A chance?”
“I have a feeling that we could get along very well,” he said. “We could not have gotten off to a more horrible beginning, I grant you, but please don’t hold that against me forever. The Woodcutters’ Ball is in a month’s time, and I was hoping you would accompany me. It’s a gala evening . . . well, at least it was before the war. Now we’ve had to cut back, but it’s the social event of the season in Berlin.”
“I don’t think so, Henry.”
“Tell me, are you saying no because you have no interest in me, or because of my brother’s abhorrent behavior?”
He appeared so vulnerable as he asked that she couldn’t help but feel pity for him. And what did she really feel? It was true that her heart felt on loan to August, but he was a prisoner of war, a German, and it was unrealistic to place her hopes on such a thin string. Henry, on the other hand, came from a prominent family in New Hampshire. He was an American, college educated, attractive, and he seemed sincere in his repentance.
Before she could answer, Mrs. Hammond appeared. She said hello to Henry but took no time to hear his reply. She carried a sewing bag over one shoulder and a quilt against her chest. Collie knew Mrs. Hammond was headed out for a night of quilting and gossip at Mrs. Cutrer’s. It was her regular Tuesday night, her one break in her demanding week.
“Almost forgot,” Mrs. Hammond said at the door, “our little Marie is ill. Her mother called over this afternoon from their neighbor’s house. They don’t have a phone, you know.”
“Is it serious?”
“Apparently it is. They thought it was the simple influenza, but it’s taken a turn. It’s hard to know how these things will go.”
“But she’ll get well?” Collie said, sitting up.
“I expect so, but the girl wanted to see you. She thinks the world of you, you know?”
“She’s a dear. Henry, you’ll have to excuse me. She’ll think I’ve abandoned her.”
“Give her my best, and tell her mother I’ll do anything I can to help,” Mrs. Hammond said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”
“We’re all in God’s hands,” she said, and then walked off, the quilt like the soft prow of a ship.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go to her,” Collie said. “May I think about your invitation? I’d like to sleep on it.”
“Certainly,” he said, rising. “And I hope your friend has a speedy recovery. Do you need a ride?”
“No, she lives close by, thank you.”
He nodded and turned to go. She gave him credit for not dragging things out.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she said as he opened the door.
“I’d always bring you flowers,” he said, then he left.
• • •
Estelle dressed carefully, slipping into a peach-colored gown that suited her, she knew. It was not a new gown, but her mother had it cleaned and ready; Estelle slid it over her head, adjusted it past her hips and breasts, then turned and watched the fall of it as she moved. Yes, it worked. It had always worked, that was the point, and she understood her mother took pleasure in seeing her daughter “come to her senses.” That had been Estelle’s resolve, formed as the train left Stark and confirmed as she traveled closer to home: she was done resisting. She comprehended what her parents wanted from her, of her, and she endeavored to give it to them. She had not seen Mr. Kamal except briefly, and then only out of politeness. She had stopped by casually, ducking in to buy an arrangement of irises for her friend, Ginny Babcock, and she had braved it through with Mr. Kamal despite his pleading eyes. Her coldness had wounded him; it had wounded her as well, and on returning from the shop she had gone directly to bed, claiming a headache. She had cried until her eyes had become pale, sandy deserts. She had lost her taste for everything, and now the world seemed dull and flat and empty. She moved through her days, but she felt herself an imitation of what her true self might have been previously. In giving up Mr. Kamal, she had forfeited herself.
Nevertheless, she must put a brave face on things, she thought, turning again to see the dress in the mirror. Of course the meeting had been strained; he had wanted more from her, a greater indication of her interest, but she had retreated to a cold, lofty place in her consciousness, and she had treated him with an attitude bordering on condescension. He was a merchant, that was all. He had expressed his hope that she would visit again soon, and that he was eager to hear more about her experiences in New Hampshire. She smiled and accepted the bouquet of flowers. She promised nothing.
And now she had a date to a country-club dance with George Samuels. George, dear George, was not unlike the peach dress she modeled for herself in the mirror. He was tried-and-true. He came from the right stock, from the right schools, was determinedly heading in the right direction. Nobody found anything exotic about George, which, she confessed to herself, was a relief. It made her parents happy to see her dressing for a dinner dance with George Samuels, and it was not a deficit of character for parents to want the best for their daughter. Even his name, in its blandness, seemed a relief to her mother; several times Estelle had caught her mother emphasizing the correctness of his name when she mentioned her daughter’s plans to friends on the phone. George and Estelle. George Samuels, of course, the boy left out of the war due to some form of hernia.
Estelle sat at the vanity in her room and applied the last of her makeup. She spritzed a tiny cloud of Chanel from her atomizer and ducked her head through it. The lighting proved flattering; she looked, she admitted, like a young woman going out with a man to a country-club dinner dance. Her mother’s pair of small diamond studs glittered in her ears, and a triple string of cultured pearls dangled at her throat. If she could not feel the part, then she would have to act the part until feeling came. That was her plan.
Her mother entered as Estelle put a wrap around her shoulders. Mrs. Emhoff was a tall, graceful woman in her late forties, with a blond bubble of hair that had recently tilted toward gray, and a pale complexion that burned easily in the sun. She wore dramatic red lipstick that occasionally left a pink sheen on her teeth.
“Oh, you did go with the peach,” her mother said, although why she should be surprised Estelle could not imagine. They had discussed it a thousand times.
“It’s what we talked about, wasn’t it, Mother?”
“Yes, of course. You look so lovely in it. And George just pulled in. Your father is answering the door.”
“I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Let him wait a little,” her mother said. “Men hate to wait, and that’s why it’s good for them.”
“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”
“Always, dear, always. Now, yes, the pearls are just right. Spin and let me see you.”
Estelle did as her mother requested. When she finished she watched her mother’s happiness spread like something spilled and expanding on a kitchen floor. Her mother wore a dark gray at-home dress, and it was possible, Estelle thought, that she had selected it to provide contrast to her daughter’s pastel outfit. It tired her to think such a thing, and she took her mother’s hands in sympathy. It seemed unfair that she, Estelle, had such power over her mother’s happiness.
“It’s just George,” she said, “and just the old country club.”
“George is making his way, make no mistake. You look lovely, dear. You’ll meet the Elvinsons at the dance? You’ll make quite a smart set.”
“A dream come true,” Estelle could not prevent herself from saying.
“What is it that you’re looking for, dear?” her mother asked, bending to flounce the hem of her daughter’s dress a little. “Why this fatigued-with-the-world demeanor? It’s very tiring and not particularly attractive. You’re a lucky girl to be going out to a dance while a war . . .”
“I know, Mother. I’m sorry. I promise to be
have.”
“George is a perfectly nice young man, with a good future in front of him. You grew up with him, Estelle. His parents are friends.”
“You’re right, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“Now go down and save the poor young man from your father. He’ll probably be in a full sweat by now.”
Estelle hugged her mother. She didn’t mean to be cross and difficult. If anything, she should be grateful to her mother, she knew, but her mind felt like a scramble of warring emotions. She had been cruel to Mr. Kamal! Yes, cruel. And now she wanted to be cruel to her mother, and to George, the ox of a man who wanted nothing more than to be her escort for an evening, and maybe for life. Estelle knew herself to be a difficult daughter, and as she went down the stairs she scolded herself that she would be better, would improve, and that George, her bovine boyfriend, would be the first step in her self-reclamation.
She found them in the living room drinking highballs. They had not bothered to sit but stood next to the portable bar, their glasses like bronze candles in their hands. George wore a dinner jacket over a white shirt with a crisp black bow beneath his chin. He had put on weight since college and his face looked fleshy and supple, a camel’s neck and face, with eyelids that fell over his eyes and achieved a sleepy, bemused expression. He seemed always to be tilting his head backward, as if his vision needed the flat expanse of his cheeks to see things properly.
“There she is,” her father said. “Would you like to join us, dear?”
“A short one, please. Hello, George.”
“You look smashing,” George said.
George borrowed English phrases and made them part of his vernacular; she had forgotten that about him until her recent reacquaintance with him. His immersion into business had only made it worse. She imagined he thought it made him more refined, or continental, or merely different.
“Thank you, George. You look very handsome.”
“Is your mother coming down?” her father asked, shaking out a highball.
“Right here!” her mother said, whisking into the room. “Hello, George. You’re a picture!”