At that moment Brooks pondered enlisting. Perhaps he could shed a few pounds and fit into one of those dashing airplanes. He looked sullenly down at his paunch. Maybe a zeppelin, he thought with disgust.
But before he could finish his self-flagellation, he heard steps on the gravel of the driveway.
It had better be his lawyer, Ronald Choate, and Choate had better have some answers, or Choate would be choked. His mustache twitched in rage.
“Father?”
His walrus mustache perked up. Helen was better than Choate.
“Yes?” he replied, looking at her in the doorway. The frown returned.
Helen had come from a walk. Her hair was unbound, her cheeks reddened by the wind. Mud clung to the hem of her wool skirt. Ophelia in the moated grange looked better, he thought.
“Dear child, why did you go out in this mess?”
“How could I sleep after the police searched our house last night? The house felt like it was caving in on me. I went for a walk.”
“Yes, the police.” He sighed. “A most humiliating business. At least they didn’t find any additional people hiding out or doling out family limitation booklets by the gross. Please, come in.”
“There could have been more women hiding at our house?”
“Who knows who your mother met in New York?” said Mr. Brooks.
Helen’s heart sank. “Are we safe for now?”
“Of course not!” he said brusquely. “This has permanently affected our standing in the community. We’ll be outcasts just like the Darlingtons.” He looked sadly up at a portrait of his father in military uniform. “In some ways, Helen, it’s quite liberating, but in others it’s not, especially for my unmarried daughter.”
She decided now was not the time to discuss Wils. “Then if there’s no danger here, may I just return to my studies? I could be of use in Cambridge.”
He moved over on the settee, and motioned her to sit down. “Then both you and Peter would have deserted me. I need you here, Helen.” He suddenly looked older, she thought. Much older. And she understood that for today there would be no talk at all of Wils or of returning to Cambridge.
“Helen, your mother really wishes to help this cause but—but—” He caught himself, holding his hands up in protest. “Let me remember myself,” he said, catching his breath. “We’ve had too much emoting around this house as it is. I’ll start over.
“While I cannot take credit for what others choose to do, I did marry your mother and I knew that the apple wouldn’t fall far from the tree. Your grandmother was at Seneca Falls and raised a fighter. They believe that reasonable people work with the world, unreasonable people change it, and that”—he sighed—“is why we have the house in New Hampshire—to get away from unreasonable people! To flee such slings and arrows of outrageous fortune when the police come for the occasional odd duck in our family.”
“But, Father, Mother has been entirely unreasonable. And she looks down on us as conventional.”
He frowned as he pondered the question, and the bushy brows seemed to war with each other.
“Hiding those women from the police was a bad idea. This is not the Underground Railroad. Your mother is now in serious trouble. Apparently Ms. Margaret Sanger and her friend jumped bail and fled to avoid defending their principles in a court of law. I hope they are posted on a ship to England.”
“How did the shipping lanes clear, Father?” Helen could not think of a fact so vile as the shipping lanes being open. These lanes would take Wils from her if they were not shut down promptly.
“They’re not clear. But they’re also no match for the likes of your mother or her friends. And the truth be told, anyone with connections can get through—probably the kaiser himself—if they have the will to do so. Apparently these ladies possess that in spades.”
“Leaving Mother here to face the charges—”
“Leaving your mother here. Yes. It’s good they did.”
“But she’ll be blamed!”
He sat up and looked at her blankly. “I need her here, Helen. I mean, at least she’ll be here in Boston. And I’ll—I’ll—” His shoulders slumped. “Well, you know I’ll be there beside her, writing the checks to the lawyers and making sure that no one lays a hand on my wife.”
Helen gave his plump hand a sad pat. “That’s the spirit, Father.”
“I do love your mother, and I’m so gullible in matters of love,” he grumped. Helen winced. So was she.
“Why did Mother decide that changing the world was worth all of this?”
He sniffed. His mustache drooped past his thick neck onto his velvet collar. “You haven’t figured that out?”
“I’m mystified by her energy.”
He gave a slight laugh, his chest rumbling. “She is a reformer. That’s what she wants to be—to help people who can’t help themselves. It can be a noble calling, and her heart’s in the right place.”
“But what of us?”
He looked down to her. “You don’t feel compelled to distribute family limitation devices, do you?”
“Not in the least.”
He sighed in relief. “Neither do I. It’s her calling and her constitution. It doesn’t have to be ours.”
“And you love her for it? After she abandoned us?”
“Nonsense, Helen. She says I took you from her and alienated your affection so that you’d prefer me to her. But that is of course nonsense, and I dismiss it every time she brings it up. I love her. Of course I don’t love her helping a person evade the law. But she is a fierce competitor and has a fine mind. Under all of that Sturm und Drang lies a soft heart, albeit one that tends toward taking in all the strays of the world. I have no need of a meek wife, and I hope I’ve not raised a meek daughter.”
Helen rested her head on her father’s sleeve. “But I hear the meek shall inherit the earth.”
“I certainly hope not,” he said with a sigh. “I had my money on you and your mother.”
They sat together in silence, her head on his arm, as they stared at the fire, waiting for the lawyer Choate to arrive. The scent of the leather and tobacco of the study, the tall cases crammed with familiar books, the soft sound of the fire—it felt like home again to Helen. It felt like old times: before her mother’s arrest, before her mother left for New York and she for college, even before she met Wils Brandl—when it was just Helen and her father working together in the study, and there was no trouble so big that they couldn’t solve it together.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Lawyer, the Cook, and the Mechanic
Merrimack Hill
The glow of the vespers light through the rain could not sustain the even-tempered facade that Helen’s father attempted to project to the world. He had been curt with Mr. Choate, whose news had not been kind. Charles Archer would not allow Mrs. Merriam Brooks to come home. Archer was in an ill temper himself, his son having been expelled just that morning from Harvard. Beat another student, especially a German, all you want, but do not cross Copeland, was the lesson Harvard administered. Charles Archer, whose consent was necessary for a bail agreement for Mrs. Brooks, was in the process of attempting to find a Red Cross post in the Mediterranean for his son and could not be bothered with the likes of Mrs. Merriam Brooks today, or any other official business.
Her father had made Patrick apoplectic when he yelled at the chauffeur for not having the car ready to take him to City Hall that morning. The ride had been canceled later due to Choate’s advice that the presence of angry husbands would only reduce the likelihood that cooler heads would prevail in the delicate negotiations required to get Mrs. Brooks back to her house. Patrick, in a fit of Irish pique, developed a pain in his back of unknown origin and indeterminate duration. He retired to his quarters at midday and refused to leave.
Finally, Mr. Brooks thundered at the new cook, who had
changed dinner menus at the last minute. The metal skewers of venison had a sesame sauce to which he was allergic, and he fumed that any Boston cook should know brown sauce, not sesame sauce, belonged on venison. Helen tried to mediate after her father took a cold leg of duck into the study. But the cook, who was actually French, was a temperamental man. He insisted his food had brought life to the dead, made lame men walk, and helped the blind to see. The cook would have none of it, and, his temper getting the best of him, refused to work again until his honor had been satisfied. He walked out the front door. He stood sulking under a side awning as the rain dripped overhead, a cigarette his only comfort.
Helen looked around the empty entry hall, its wide polished pine floors and ornate moldings. It felt antiseptic and cold from its thick Turkish carpets to its landscapes hung precisely just so. No dust collected in any of the corners, around the feet of the grand staircase, under the marble hall table, or even around the brass umbrella bucket. The cut glass around the front door was shined and even the padlock on the white painted oak doors of her mother’s parlor gleamed with new brass.
There was no comfort here after all. Wils was leaving soon and she missed him dreadfully. The little time they had left was running out. Helen sighed and closed her eyes. She wished she could be in Cambridge with Wils. She missed him dreadfully and had conjured up several schemes to get back to Cambridge to no avail. Her father had been on the telephone the entire day, leaving her no chance to speak with Wils or make arrangements to get into town.
For Helen, it was pure torture until she finally realized there was nothing to be done about it. She looked around and then walked upstairs, deciding that the time had come for her to exchange her wool dress for a cotton nightgown. She would escape to her soft bed with a book about a queen of England or France or Italy—someone with more problems than she. She loosed the navy ribbon, letting her hair fall to her shoulders, and walked up the steps, defeated.
And so, with the cook angry, Mr. Brooks frustrated, Patrick with the vapors, and Helen retiring, it was perhaps not the most propitious of times for Mr. Wils Brandl to make his first call upon Merrimack Hill.
The rumble of a car in the drive at that hour was not Helen’s concern. A knock on the door came as she reached the top step. She looked down into the foyer to see who it was, but the cut glass around the large door obscured her view of the visitor. There being no servant about that her father had not angered, she sighed, turned back down the steps, walked to the door, and opened it.
Wils Brandl looked up at her from the top of her granite steps, under the cover of a dark umbrella. His spectacles were spattered with droplets and his blond hair damp. Rain dripped all around him.
“My love,” she said, stunned.
“I heard just today about your mother,” he said quickly. “I went to your hall and they said you were gone. I called Peter at the crew club. He gave me directions to your house,” he said. “I came in the rain.”
“Peter gave you directions?” she asked.
“He knows,” he said. “And approves,” he said as she laughed in delight. He walked into the hallway and took one of her hands in his.
“Mein Gott, Helen, I can’t leave without seeing you again. My lawyer’s called. Two days from now I must sail.”
“No!” she said defiantly. “I won’t let you!”
A smile burst forth upon his lips. “My love commands me to stay?” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, still in his wet raincoat. “Then I wasn’t dreaming?” he said softly, as he felt her shiver under layers of white silk.
Heavy steps came into the hall. “You there!” came a gruff voice.
“Father, it’s—”
“Another young man? How many are there, Helen?”
Wils stepped back. “I’m Wilhelm von Lützow Brandl.”
“Helen, this is not the boy from the Harvest Festival.”
“The man from the festival was a mistake, Father—he actually kissed me there against my will.”
Mr. Brooks glowered at Wils from the top of his blond hair to the laced brown leather shoes. “And how do we know Mr. Brandl is not a mistake as well?”
“He is most certainly not. Father, I’m going to marry him,” Helen said before Wils could open his mouth.
“What?! Treason!” he spluttered. He turned to Wils. “I regret that I must ask you to leave this very minute.”
“Your daughter, sir, I have asked her to marry me,” Wils explained quietly.
“Helen, he’s German.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Son, aren’t you about to leave for war? What business have you asking anyone to marry you?”
“Father, he informed me of this as well, but I love him and I wish to marry him.”
Jonathan Brooks turned to his daughter and pursed his lips. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes after a moment he attempted a controlled tone.
“Mr. Brandl, this is a very difficult time for our family. So I don’t care if you’re Otto von Bismarck himself, you must leave this minute. I have a wife in jail and I’ll have you know I would not be averse to joining her by taking desperate actions against suitors who do not know when to leave!”
“Father!”
Wils drew himself up and gave a quick nod. “I am sorry about your wife’s situation, sir. I would gladly render any service to your family for the sake of your daughter. That’s one reason I drove here as well.”
“You help me?” said Mr. Brooks with a sneer. “How could you possibly help me?”
“I have a very good lawyer, sir, Robert Goodman. Perhaps he could help your wife?”
“You know Robert Goodman?”
Wils nodded.
“That’s a thought,” her father replied in a softer tone. “I hear he may be more helpful than our Choate, who is more a banking man.”
The three stood there in silence for a moment, neither man turning to leave or backing down.
After some time Wils said, “I apologize for the lateness of the call. May I call on Helen tomorrow?”
“You may call on her when Helen’s mother is back in the house. But not tonight. There are too many things going on.”
“Father, please let him stay,” she begged, fear in her eyes as he turned to go. “He’s leaving for the war.”
“You love me, Helen.” Wils smiled. “And that is enough for now.” He looked up with a bow of his head at Mr. Brooks. “Sir, may I return tomorrow?”
“If her mother is at the house.”
Wils bowed his head slightly to both of them, picked up his umbrella, and left.
“Wils!” she called, following him out the door past her father. She caught him at the bottom of the steps and encircled him with her arms. He embraced her, his slender girl who smelled of lilac. No father, no matter how angry, could pry this hope from him. Mr. Brooks rolled his eyes at them from the top step but refused to step out into the weather.
“Helen, come in from the rain,” he called.
“Wils, come back and see me before you leave,” she said.
He smiled broadly and spun her around. Then he put her down carefully on a step and held his umbrella aloft over the two of them. “Your father will not—” he said, looking up to the towering figure of Mr. Brooks, silhouetted by the hall lights. “Talk to him tonight.” He gave her the umbrella and ran to the front of his car to crank the engine. It gave a few coughs and started.
“Father!” she pleaded. “Please!” The engine started outside.
“Tomorrow,” her father said. “Let us return to this in the harsh light of day.”
Wils stepped up to the driver’s seat. “Miss Brooks, you’ll see me again at first light,” he said.
She would take tomorrow, and whatever he could give her, she thought. She wished only for him.
“Come in, Helen,” call
ed her father as the car rumbled toward the front gate. But she stood watching Wils as if she were a sentinel.
The car suddenly stopped and its lights went dim in the distance. Helen squinted and saw Wils running back through the rain.
“Sir, two of my four tires have been punctured.”
“What?” asked Mr. Brooks. “How?”
“I have no idea. Do you sprinkle nails in your driveway?”
“I certainly do not. Was the steering off when you drove out here?”
“Not at all. My car is of the finest make. It drove well all the way here.”
“Mr. Brandl, you drove in on two flat ties and didn’t notice anything?”
“Mr. Brooks, I assure you the tires were in perfect order. But they must have somehow gone flat. May I use your telephone to call the mechanic?”
“The mechanic shops are closed,” said Brooks. “We’ll call Patrick.”
“He’s ill,” said Helen, her eyes lighting up.
“There are spares in the barn.”
“Patrick has the key,” she countered.
Mr. Brooks frowned, shrugged, then finally seemed to give up. “I can’t fight both City Hall and my own household. Come in, Mr. Brandl. Have you had supper?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“Ah, right. Well, I’ll see if I can call the cook back. He’s a testy sort. It’s a good thing he didn’t meet you either—he despises Germans and anyone who doesn’t agree with him. He went outside to pout after I didn’t appreciate the venison he cooked tonight. If you can stomach venison with a sesame sauce, it’s all yours. Other than that, there’s a bit of roast duck left from lunch.” He reached his hand down to shake. “Jonathan Brooks, Helen’s father. Pleased to meet you,” he said begrudgingly.
The End of Innocence Page 17