She sighed audibly as the soup bowls were cleared from the table and the serving girls began bringing the next course of crisp roast duckling and peas.
“Excuse me, Miss Milton, the water?” Chloe, the seven-year-old seated beside her was nudging at her with an elbow, a look of exasperation on her plump, pink face.
“Yes, Chloe? Mind we do not poke at people, now.”
“I’m sorry, Miss, but you weren’t hearing me the other times. I was just trying to secure your attention. Please don’t be cross.”
“No, I’m not cross, not with you. Pass me your glass.” As she poured and watched the water slosh into Chloe’s glass, Abby was mortified to realize that now even the children were noticing her foul moods, her preoccupation. Well here and now, this was the final stroke. She would have to make a change in her life at once, find something else to engage her, consume her, lest she disintegrate into a pile of angry ash, decimated by her own frail heart.
TWO HOURS AFTER THE CONCLUSION OF THE TEDIOUS luncheon, Abby sat with Margaret Parsons in the small faculty parlor, sipping iced tea and reviewing procedures for the teachers’ exam. Edna Handler was retiring from her post, as Miss Parsons had expected, and Abby was the top prospect to assume the older woman’s position as full class mistress for the seven-and eight-year-old girls.
“After the Board has observed you,” Miss Parsons explained, “they will vote on whether to elevate you to the new post.” The headmistress smiled. “Just try to be chipper and smile a bit when you do your lecture. You always excel in the subject of literature, so take confidence,” Miss Parsons advised with gusto, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “I’d like to start preparing you as soon as possible. Perhaps you want to focus on a play? Shakespeare, maybe?”
“No, no play,” Abby coughed, her teacup teetering slightly in her hand as she returned it to the faded oval table between them. She could think only of Douglas and his penchant for plays. She would do something else, poetry perhaps, even arithmetic if need be. Catching herself, she continued more casually. “Perhaps you could help me choose a different genre. Plays have never been my favorite, and if I am to deliver an outstanding lecture, then I think the topic should be something I am passionate about.”
“A fine point,” Miss Parsons dipped her chin in agreement and pursed her pale lips for a moment of thought. “How about Poe? Everybody seems interested in that fellow. And he is so current, a clever choice for drawing notice from the trustees. Let us look into that.” Miss Parsons began scribbling furiously on her writing tablet.
After a moment, Abby responded, “Thank you, Miss Parsons. I really do appreciate all you’ve done for me. Hopefully, I will do you proud.”
“Oh nonsense, of course you will. Oh!” She looked up from her notes. “I’ve just had the most wonderful idea. Neil, my nephew, he’s an enormous fan of Edgar Allen Poe. Let us invite him to call, and we can parse through ideas with him. Don’t you think?”
Abby let out a breath as she tried to think how to turn down the suggestion of Miss Parsons’s nephew, yet again. But then she thought the better of it. Perhaps this illustrious Neil Parsons was just the distraction she required. It need not be about courting, but she might benefit from the company of a person near her own age. Perhaps they could be friends, and he might even introduce her to others in the surrounding neighborhood, or from Lenox or Lee, where some of the students’ families resided. Gracie came to mind, and Abby forced thoughts of the girl away. Perhaps she would meet new young women here in Stock-bridge, through Neil.
“Fine, that sounds lovely,” she found herself telling Miss Parsons as she absentmindedly ran her hand over the crushed velvet of the love seat beneath her. “Why don’t you see if he can call in a few days. I’d like to review the Poe in our library beforehand, so I am prepared.”
Miss Parsons’s mouth opened in a silent O, her surprise at Abby’s new willingness clear before she rearranged herself. “Wonderful. I am gladdened to see you opening yourself to new possibilities.” She patted Abby’s arm in a matronly gesture of approval. “I will send word to him at once.”
THREE DAYS LATER, ABBY SAT AT THE WRITING DESK IN her room at the dormitory, thumbing through the texts she had collected from the school’s library, and she found herself mystified. It was grand foolishness to attempt crafting a lecture on Edgar Allen Poe. She considered his stories gruesome and disturbing, each one putting her off more than the next. The summer heat that cascaded though her narrow window was hardly sufficient to ward off the gory images of death that Poe presented. Hopefully when Miss Parsons’s nephew arrived, he would offer adequate clarification on the significance of Poe’s macabre meanderings.
Shaking her shoulders out, as if ridding herself of Poe’s harrowing stories, she emerged from her quarters and found several of the school’s older girls clustered in the hallway. They were whispering and giggling as they peered out a large picture window into the courtyard. Twelve-year-old Genevieve Pope was the first to see Abby as she approached.
“Oh, Miss Milton,” Genevieve spoke too loudly, clearly intending to alert her coconspirators to Abby’s presence. The other girls who had been competing for space at the window turned almost in unison to see Abby. They all quickly mumbled excuses and scurried away.
“Stella,” Abby called after one girl, “come back here please.” The slender girl, really on the cusp of adulthood, turned with obvious reluctance and made her way toward Abby.
“What is all the fuss about then?” Abby asked, making an effort to use her stern voice with the dark-haired girl.
“Well, if you must know,” she glanced back toward the courtyard, “we were admiring Miss Parsons’s nephew.” Her voice had a shoving quality to it, the same as her own sister Gwen’s when she was trying to convince Abby to misbehave. “They’re out in the courtyard, talking,” Stella continued. “He’s really rather dashing. You could hardly blame us.” She shrugged at Abby. “May I be excused now?” The girl appeared bored, anxious to rejoin her friends.
“Yes, yes,” Abby shooed Stella with her hand, unbalanced by the girl’s precociousness.
Abby stepped closer to the window and glanced outside, confident she wouldn’t be seen from her location in the dark hallway. She viewed Neil Parsons in profile as he opened his mouth to laugh about something with his aunt, and the man was indeed, something to look at. He was tall and slender with dark-blonde hair cut close to his head. He was not as big or imposing as Douglas, but seemed to hold himself with an understated, masculine grace. As Abby realized she was comparing him to Douglas, she gave herself a mental cuff to the head and turned toward the kitchen, figuring she would alert the staff that it was time to prepare the tea service.
32
STOCKBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
JULY 1846
After Abby decided which sandwiches and mini-tarts would round out the tea, she made her way to the Dudley Parlor, so named in honor of a family that once donated a sizeable financial gift to the school. With so many wealthy students romping through Hadley’s halls, Abby found it tiresome to remember the origin of each gift to the school, a library here, a grand piano there. Yet she took note of the Dudley name because she particularly liked the petite parlor with its domestic aura. Stepping into the space allowed Abby a moment to imagine that Hadley was an authentic home, rather than simply the academy providing her respite for the moment. Although if she secured the class mistress position, then at least she would see her refuge assured for longer.
As she drew near the parlor, she heard Miss Parsons and her nephew already inside, chattering on in the easy way of family.
“Good afternoon,” she announced as she met the back of Neil Parsons, who was seated in an armchair facing his aunt.
The nephew rose immediately, turning to face her and proving that he was even more impressive to behold at close range. He appeared near her age, with fresh-looking skin and straight white teeth that showed themselves proudly as he smiled at her.
�
�You must be Miss Milton,” his voice was smooth, confident. “Aunt Maggie, if you would please introduce us properly?” He glanced toward his aunt.
“Of course,” Miss Parsons answered, an uncharacteristic buoyancy to her speech. “Mr. Neil Parsons, may I present Miss Abigail Milton, newest aide to the Hadley faculty, and hopefully soon a more permanent fixture.”
“How do you do, Miss Milton.” He offered a slight bow. “I’m delighted you will be joining us for tea, at last, as I’ve had an earful about your grace and charm already. Perhaps after I’ve had an opportunity to investigate these allegations, my dear Aunt Maggie can let up?” He winked at his aunt, playfulness in his voice, and Abby warmed to his straightforward manner.
She positioned herself beside Miss Parsons on the small chesterfield against the wall. As Miss Parsons explained that Abby was hoping to learn more about Edgar Allan Poe for her mock lecture, Abby wondered how a man who seemed so light and unencumbered could be interested in gruesome work like Poe’s.
Neil looked from Miss Parsons back to Abby in apparent surprise.
“You’re serious?” he asked. “Such morose and frightening stories? And to think, my aunt had told me you were an enlightened young lady. Well.” He smiled, belying his game.
“Actually,” Abby responded, “joking aside, that is precisely how I feel about his writing. I cannot grasp what pleasure a person might find in reading such chilling work, which was actually the question I was hoping you might elucidate this afternoon.”
“I would be elated to provide you a lengthy inventory of reasons that Poe is an exceptional author, but I must admit, which I am loathe to do in your lovely English presence, that one of my favorite attributes of his is the fact that he is American. With so few American writers taken seriously, we must support all those in the country who deserve it.” He paused as Marianne, the serving girl, entered with a tray of tea that she placed on the chestnut table. Neil nodded politely at Marianne and looked back to Abby. “Do forgive me, but as superb as I find Dickens and Pope, it’s time this nation had some hefty names of our own.”
Abby watched him reach out for a tomato sandwich, the fabric of his jacket pulling against the muscle of his shoulder, and she thought how admirable she found his position on American literature, a worthy cause. She would, indeed, like to have a friendship with a gentleman like him, and to meet others with whom someone so thoughtful, so introspective, spent his time.
She began imagining herself hosting animated meetings of intellectuals, a salon of sorts, where she could share concepts and companionship with like-minded individuals. Combined with her life at Hadley, the stimulation might be enough; she might yet have a suitable life, an acceptable existence. She shifted in her seat as she tried to digest this altered vision of her future. Memories of her thwarted intentions to combat Southern slavery threatened to reappear, crushing her afresh. But Abby refrained from surrendering to her thoughts, for the time being evicting them from her mind.
“I am not offended, Mr. Parsons,” she ventured. “And I will try to understand what makes your Mr. Poe so special, other than his ability to frighten the packing out from under me.” She found herself smiling genuinely at him, glad for his company, as Miss Parsons looked on, practically glittering. Miss Parsons opened her mouth to add something, but she was distracted by the appearance of Myra Hobson, one of the first-year students, standing in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” the girl spoke out with proud authority. “I’ve had a note.” She held up an envelope like pilfered bounty. “For Miss Milton. May I bring it? He said it’s important.” The girl was bouncing with excitement, clearly trussed up by her task.
Abby looked to Miss Parsons, who returned her teacup to its saucer and answered graciously. “Of course, Myra, come in.”
The girl hurried over to Abby, waving the envelope about as she crossed the small room. Abby noticed Myra’s eyes lingering on the tray of pastries as she handed over the message.
“Thank you, Myra,” Abby said as she took the envelope. “Miss Parsons, would it be all right if Myra had a pastry, for her help with this delivery?”
“Of course, dear,” Miss Parsons pushed the tray forward on the table. “Choose just one though. We mustn’t spoil your supper.” The girl’s eyes prowled from one pastry to another, finally settling on an apricot linzer torte. As Myra trotted from the room, her prize already in her mouth, Abby edged the letter into her dress pocket. She could hardly imagine what it was about, but she knew better than to review correspondence while hosting company.
“No, you might as well open it now. Myra said it was important,” Miss Parsons told her as she looked toward Neil, who was sipping his tea. “We won’t mind, right, Neil?”
“Of course.” He nodded agreeably. “Please.”
Abby slid her fingernail under the pasty tab of the envelope before pulling out a folded paper. In a tight, deliberate scrawl, she saw words written out in a stanza, like poetry.
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journey’s end in lovers meeting . . .
Abby’s breath caught as she read the verse again. She would have recognized those lines anywhere. The song sung by the clown in Twelfth Night. She knew it exactly! Act II, Scene 3, she was certain. Why was she holding these words now, on this pulpy card that was vibrating in her quivering hand? Her thoughts flashed to a discussion she had with Douglas once about these lines from the play he’d read to her. The day they had lunch in the Hayes parlor, he mentioned the verse again and told her that Shakespeare’s fool seemed particularly wise, theorizing that a journeyer could cease traveling after meeting her true love. But it was she who was the fool, believing that he was referring to their mutual affection, that he might have been urging her to consider his home the final stop on her journey. Abby leaned in closer to the message, trying to decipher the meaning behind the note’s arrival. The ripe smell of ink was nearly hypnotic as her mind raced to tease out explanations. Then suddenly, he was there.
She heard him clearing his throat in the doorway to the parlor. The low rumbling sound, the timber of his voice, it was unmistakable. She forced her head up and beheld him. He stood before them in his traveling clothes, improbably neat after a lengthy journey, and the sight of his windswept face knocked the air from her. She shot up from her seat, unconscious of her intention, but then stiffened, held to her place. She was crippled by confusion and looked back to the note in her hand, as if to find instruction.
Douglas’s gaze roved over her, quickly assessing her, as if checking for damage. When his eyes returned to her face, there was a softness, a pleading that served to turn her own momentary relief sour, spoiling it back to anger. How dare he come here now, after all these weeks and months, looking so gratified to have found her.
It seemed a struggle for him to break his gaze from her as he turned toward Miss Parsons and Neil. “Forgive me for intruding, one of the girls showed me in. This feels highly inappropriate now, barging in as I have, but I was rather frantic to locate Miss Milton.”
“Well, here I am,” Abby managed to deadpan despite her shock, embarrassed in front of Neil and Miss Parsons, worried she would be called out now for the lies about her past.
Douglas continued addressing the others. “Allow me to introduce myself. Douglas Elling.” He stepped deeper into the room and extended his hand toward Neil, who was now standing to greet Douglas properly. Suddenly the little room that Abby so adored seemed entirely too small. This restrictive space wasn’t meant to hold a man like Douglas Elling.
“How do you do,” Neil responded cautiously, and Abby noticed that Douglas was indeed significantly taller than her new friend, the crown of Neil’s head lower even than Douglas’s dark eyebrows. As she regarded the two men standing side by side, the optimistic musings she had entertained about a satisfying future at Hadley
disintegrated like scorched parchment. For a moment, she felt only her urge to envelop Douglas, to attach her every cell to his durable body and dissolve. And then like a tidal wave, all the pain she had been struggling to extinguish over the past months came rushing at her, shouting for attention. It was there again like a fever, igniting her rage, steadying her focus, protecting her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, still rooted to her place, her voice hard.
She looked back at Miss Parsons and Neil, who were regarding both her and Douglas with uncertainty. Miss Parsons looked about to speak, perhaps to take charge of the interaction and rebuke Abby for her rudeness, when Douglas held up a hand.
“Please, my sincerest apologies,” he was addressing Miss Parsons, smiling at her sheepishly, and Abby thought how the woman was likely powerless to resist his cerulean eyes and the subtle dimple in his cheek. Douglas glanced back at Neil, his gaze lingering on the man for a moment, a curiosity creeping into the corners of his eyes and then disappearing as quickly as it came. “I am a friend of Miss Milton’s,” he continued. “I’ve been attempting to discover her whereabouts for months. Would it be all right if I had a moment to speak with her?” His words reverberated through her veins, disorienting her, flushing her through with a sense of inebriation. She could not permit his magnetism to distort her thoughts, not again.
Trouble the Water_A Novel Page 29