Jeanie did, her cheeks like carnations. “It’s Happy Birthday,” she said, enraptured. “It’s the first Happy Birthday I’ve ever had on a card. A mailed card, too. Look, there’s a proper stamp.”
Cathy was glancing over the other mail. She never opened it until the rush of getting the children away was over, but she could not resist turning it curiously.
There were the usual catalogs and brochures. They were addressed “Housemother, Little Families, Burnley Hills,” and they contained samples of materials suitable for small girls’ dresses, treatises on the latest child tonics, details of new equipment for play centers. At the bottom of the pile were two addressed to Miss Trent. She put them aside with some of the personal pleasure that Jeanie must have felt. One was from England. She recognized the familiar airmail stamp. The writing was vaguely familiar, yet it was not Helen’s or Judith’s. Philippa, perhaps. She had forgotten Philippa’s writing. She knew a happy satisfaction. Only when letters from home arrived did one realize how one had looked for them.
She turned to the other letter. It was not vague. She would have recognized that bold handwriting anywhere. She handled it every day on the prescriptions she took to the pharmacist. It had scribbled caustic criticisms on the essays she handed in at class. The letter was from Jeremy Malcolm.
She sat through the meal smiling at the mailman and Jeanie and Little Marilyn, whose turn it had been to make the tea, but wondering all the time what was inside that letter.
What did she want to find inside? That was the trouble. Cathy did not know.
She had not dared analyze the feelings that had taken possession of her after they had returned from visiting Christabel last night.
The moment of magic, the aura of enchantment, was still upon her, but that was all. Nothing about it seemed real, tangible, and if it was not real and tangible, was it lasting? Could it really matter?
As in a dream she recaptured the fire in the empty hearth again, the two familiar chairs, the knowledge of being no longer rootless, but she was recapturing only a picture. Pleasant to look at, but never existing and never to exist. What was stranger still, she did not want it to exist. For a moment she had loved—yes, she must admit that love—but it had only been for a moment, and when one did not like a person, as she frankly did not like Jerry Malcolm, how could there be a deep emotion, except in fantasy?
Now there was this letter probably confirming what had happened in that silly moment when they both had stared down on the empty grate and the flames had leaped and they had drawn quietly, shining, together.
She looked at it wonderingly, nervously, anxiously. She did not know she looked at it longingly. She was unaware that her heart was standing still.
At last the mailman went, looking none the worse for lukewarm oversweetened, overmilked tea and black toast.
“My turn tomorrow,” said Barbara with some trepidation, for she had an instinct for breaking things.
Cathy said, “Yes, darling, but school now. Girls, get your bags and pack in your lunches. School bus children can go down and wait at the stop. Local schoolgirls can leave with them. Those who come in the truck with me must be ready in five minutes. Rita, you don’t have typing class till ten. You can start Avery off on her finger drawing.”
Rita looked sulky, as she always looked sulky now. She made a half-audible remark about being sick of looking after brats, which Cathy decided to ignore. She had found it best to ignore most of Rita’s comments.
She checked for handkerchiefs, saw the local schoolchildren across the highway, then piled her own into the truck. It took only half an hour to distribute them to their different schools, but all the time the letter was in front of her. What was in it? What did she want to be in it? If it was what she thought it was, how could she face Malcolm, tell him that to her the episode had been only a dream?
She came back to find Rita gone before she was supposed to go. Avery was crying because Rita had not got out her painting things and she had a sore throat. Cathy looked at the throat and promised honey and lemon. “I have a hitch,” said Avery. She always called itch “hitch.” Calamine appeased that, and before Redgates’s little whiner could discover anything else Cathy ran up to see if the girls had made their beds. It was an established rule that the older girls made their beds and helped the tinies with theirs. As usual, Alison’s was deceptively neat. Cathy pulled down the pink cottage-weave bedspread. Beneath was a muss of sheet and blanket. Alison was plump, nicely matured and lazy. In years to come, thought Cathy fondly, she would be one of those women who gossip, arms akimbo, over the fence while the dishes wait unwashed and the children run around with dirty faces. But for all that, if her mate was as easygoing and kind, there would be happiness in the house and harmony. Alison had the capacity for forgiveness and love, and that, perhaps, was better than two tidy hands. Cathy knew that when she was an old, old housemother she would sooner visit Alison than Lilias Wesley, who could not sleep at night unless her two shoes sat side by side and her books were stacked, but for all her fastidiousness would sooner throw away a candy than share it. “Naughty Alison,” she scolded the unplumped pillow.
She went downstairs again, the letters burning holes in her pocket.
Elvira was in the vegetable garden with Mrs. Ferguson. The boys’ cook joined them, and they appeared set for a nice long gossip.
Cathy went into the office, shutting the door behind her. She took out the letters.
She opened the English one first. Something she could not explain made her unwilling to open Dr. Malcolm’s.
She uncreased the single sheet and glanced down at the signature. Why, Miss Watts, of course. Why hadn’t she remembered the writing? How often had she seen it on the Public Notice Board at St. Cloud announcing rosters to duty and time off. Once it had said in disapproving red ink, A.W.O.L., C. Trent.” She had been punished with the cancellation of six leaves.
But for all that she had liked Miss Watts, and now she read eagerly:
Dear Catherine, I was pleased to receive your letter and learn of your prowess. Pleased, too, as you can guess, that you have decided to continue your career.
The letter followed another from Australia, the contents of which have left me (and still find me) bewildered and a little appalled. That last description confounds my friends who consider it good fortune, but I am an old woman now, Catherine, and frankly feel a little out of my depth. All this must be puzzling to you and a little tantalizing, I am not going to satisfy your curiosity by the written word because I hope, quite soon, to be with you and to tell you. Indeed, I leave by air on Tuesday of next month, the fifth.
Cathy glanced at the desk calendar. Why, that was only three weeks from today.
That is all for now, my dear.
I shall bring messages from Helen and Judith. Helen is ‘specialing.’ Judith has been lacking in ambition lately. I believe it may be wedding bells. Goodbye for the present. I shall cable you on my departure. Edith Watts.
There was a postscript.
If I recall correctly, Redgates had a small ward kept sacred for the use of old girls. Could an ex-housemother be considered an old girl?
“She certainly could,” said Cathy warmly, reading over the letter again. She wondered what Miss Watts’s news had been and why she was revisiting Australia. She knew the happy glow of distant friends about to be not so far distant, then her eyes fell on the second letter and the warmth went.
She fingered it nervously, distastefully, dreading to open it. How could she tell him, after she had read the contents, how differently she really felt from that brief, sweet, but unlasting unreal moment of last night? Once she had had to discourage a lovesick medical student, and it had been a small torture. How would she handle the infinitely wiser experienced man who was Jeremy Malcolm...
Taking a deep breath, she tore open the letter. Quickly she absorbed the contents, then put the letter down.
Then she laughed. It was not a gay laugh, nor yet a sad one. It was neither rueful
nor ashamed. It was simply a laugh to cover the blow to her pride and her deep humiliation. It had been one thing for her to tell Jeremy she did not care for him, but it was another thing altogether for him to stop whistling the tune.
The letter was short and to the point. It started, “Dear Miss Trent” and it finished uncompromisingly, “Yours sincerely.”
In between was a concise apology “for my behavior last night”; a regret “for any misconception it may have brought.”
She put the letter back in its creases and into its envelope; she put the envelope into her pocket.
Somewhere a clock was chiming. She recalled the clock last night, its ticks coming louder and louder until they drowned all the little quiet noises of the house—drowned, too, a man’s steps as he came to her side.
“...apologize for my behavior last night...”
It had not been just his behavior, it had been hers as well. She remembered how she had turned to him ... remembered their first kiss, quiet, without greed, a deep fulfillment.
“A regret ... for any misconception it may have brought...” There had been no misconception, Dr. Malcolm, only a feeling mutual to your own now so clearly, unmistakably stated in your hateful letter. Only you might have let me say it first ... a woman’s privilege, remember...
She got up, angry, flushed, resentful.
She thought, I feel almost as though I’ve been jilted. How dare he write like that? How dare he write like that to me, who could dance at his wedding with a light heart! He must realize I, too, know it was a mistake. Why must he make it an important mistake by giving it the status of an apology?
As she closed the office door behind her she laughed without humor at a girl who had believed she had lacked the courage to tell a man how she really felt about him.
She went back to her everyday duties chiding irritably, What is wrong with you? You knew there was an end before you read that letter. Why are you angry like this? Is it because he, not you, has supposedly freed two hearts?
Elvira called, “Cuppa,” and Cathy went in for her break.
As she sipped the hot tea she felt better. But the resentment remained—and something else. It was disenchantment. She knew, too, that for some strange reason she felt alone again—rootless.
The day dragged on. Avery discovered a bruised fingernail and had to have it bandaged. Rita’s business college rang to say that Rita had skipped a class. Denise received an early mark and came home ahead of the others.
“I got it because I was good. Could that go down on my record, so I can go sooner to live with Mrs. Latrobe?” she begged.
Cathy gave an evasive answer, but Denise appeared satisfied. Why am I deceiving her like this, Cathy grieved. Why haven’t I the heart to tell her the truth?
The children were barely home, and Cathy and Elvira were handing out the bowls of hot broth that took the place of the summer issues of bread and syrup, when Elvira put down her ladle and protested, “Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Cathy, peering through the window, too.
A large expensive car was coming up the driveway. There was only one car of that make that ever visited Redgates.
“Mrs. Dubois?” murmured Cathy.
“Who else?” snapped Elvira.
She ran into the main hall, flicking her apron here and there at some imaginary dust.
“Take out that withered flower, Aunty Cathy, love. For goodness’ sake have Avery blow her nose.”
“Elvie, what a fuss. Mrs. Dubois isn’t an ogre.”
“No? You’ll soon find out.”
Although Cathy instinctively had not liked Fayette Dubois, she had believed Elvira’s plainly stated hate of her to be unfair, unfounded and probably unrequited.
Now, as Elvira had warned, she found out...
The beautiful blond woman stepped out of the car and came up the front stairs, her high heels tapping, her furs falling casually over her slender shoulders.
When Elvie opened the door she swept in without a word. Quickly she looked around, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of a house not in its show dress but in its everyday clean but comfortable guise.
She crossed to the window, took off her glove and ran a white finger along the ledge. She examined the finger, wiped it very obviously with a lace handkerchief, then turned to the woman beside her.
“Hello, what is your name again?”
Elvira, her look saying, “You know as well as I do,” murmured, “Elvira.”
“Of course. How are you, Elvira? Busy as usual, I see. Too busy, perhaps. Little chores, I perceive, have to be held over.” She glanced at her finger.
She crossed to the hall, removing as she did a dead fern from one of the vases. She entered the kitchen.
For a moment she stood there, her nose wrinkling. “Onions,” she shrugged: “Such a crude smell.”
“It’s the broth, madam, and it’s more than onion, it’s every kind of vegetable.”
“Really? And is that necessary, El ... Elva, wasn’t it?”
“Elvira.”
“Is that necessary? I mean, at this time of the afternoon? Wouldn’t you consider it an unwarranted expense?”
It was then that Cathy, listening, realized the true nature of the woman. She possessed that most undesirable trait in a rich person—the miser touch. Although it did not personally affect her, because she was a donor to the funds that went to make this home, she resented every penny spent. It did not matter to her that the money went to succor children. It did not matter that the furs around her slim shoulders would have fed them for a year. She instinctively chafed at anything that was not for herself.
Cathy had met this before. She remembered a member of the board at St. Cloud who had found her stirring a spoonful of glucose into the orange juice for a fever patient. “Nurse, isn’t this a dearer sweetening agent than sugar?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. McLeod, but it is more readily assimilated.”
“But dearer, eh?”
The rather fat red face had gone redder still in righteous indignation. “I wouldn’t think of using it myself,” he had expostulated.
“Perhaps you don’t need it, sir. Mrs. Mullens does.”
He had peered around the corner. “Public ward at that,” he had exploded. “I’ll look into this.”
So he had, and Miss Watts had instructed Cathy to put the glucose in a sugar bowl next time. “What the eye does not see,” she had said cryptically, passing on to the next ward.
But Mr. McLeod had been old and soured and out of touch with things. Mrs. Dubois was young—not so much older than Cathy; she should not be soured.
“How much butter are you using per week?” she was asking Mrs. Ferguson.
Mrs. Ferguson told her.
“The amount has risen,” she said sharply. “Aren’t you aware of the price of butter?”
“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Ferguson.
The miser touch, the miser touch ... It came out again and again in Fayette Dubois.
She insisted on scrutinizing the weekly account and gave a triumphant little squeak when she discovered that the milk bill had gone up.
“It’s winter. They use more on their porridge.”
“Then water it, cook. It’s a scandal. It comes to more than a bottle per inmate.”
Cathy stepped forward. “According to our child diet sheet, each girl should drink a quart, Mrs. Dubois, and these are only pint bottles.”
The blond woman turned and narrowed her eyes at Cathy. “I am well aware that this is a charitable institute, but there is a limit to people’s charity. Especially in the face of extravagance and waste.”
There was silence in the kitchen.
Fayette resumed.
“You know, of course, that I am a donor to the funds that keep Redgates a going concern. Perhaps you do not know, however, that without my money the house would have to shut down. I subscribe by far the biggest sums. Compared to my donations, the other patrons’ efforts are like pebbles in a pond.”
She had crossed to the table and taken up some of the patterns of materials that had come by mail. She looked at them acidly, then threw them down.
“I am not a hard woman, but I am a sensible one. I realize that to get anywhere one must be practical. That is why a periodic visit like this is invaluable, both to you and to me. To you to remind you just where and how you must tighten your belts. To me to raise the old question—shall Redgates continue to benefit from Dubois support or not.”
At that moment Avery chose to sniff.
Fayette winced and said, “Hasn’t that child a rag on which to blow her nose?”
“She has a handkerchief,” said Cathy firmly.
“It has Three Little Pigs on it,” informed Avery, “only it’s dirty now. Look.”
When the beautiful Mrs. Dubois did not look Avery said, hoping to attract attention again. “I have a hitch.”
Cathy took Avery by the hand to lead her out, but at the door they ran into Rita.
The housemother gave Rita an agonized look that besought her to disappear before Mrs. Dubois saw her, and indeed, Rita would have preferred to do that, but it was too late.
“Ah, the bad-tempered miss who tried to pour the tea over me. How is it you are not at school with the other girls?”
“I go to business school, and the classes are different.” Rita’s voice was sulky.
Mrs. Dubois had crossed the room and was eyeing Rita closely.
“Haven’t you been putting on lipstick?”
“No, madam.”
“It looks suspiciously like it,” said Fayette, and Cathy, peering, thought so, too. There was a smeared, rubbed look about Rita’s mouth, as though she had prudently removed the lip rouge at the gate. The caked remains were an outrageous orange red.
Rita said miserably, “Some of the girls at school use it. They let me have a try.”
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