by Kitty Zeldis
On Monday morning, she woke to find him packing. “Are you going somewhere?” He had planned to stay at the house this week—or so he had told her.
“I’ve got some business in Boston. I’ll be gone for a couple of days.” He would not look at her.
“You never mentioned it.”
“It’s a case involving a Boston firm. Nothing that important.”
“It’s important enough for you to be going there. And staying overnight.” She stared at him but he still would not look back.
“Why are you asking me all these questions? Don’t you trust me?” He finally met her gaze.
Patricia got out of bed. “I just don’t understand why you won’t give me a straight answer.”
“I’ll telephone you from Boston,” he said, tossing balled-up pairs of socks into the open suitcase. “You’ll be fine. And I’m not leaving yet. I’ll have breakfast here.”
“All right,” she said, “I just wish that—” The telephone’s ring cut her short and she went down to answer it. It was Tom, calling from Saratoga Springs.
“Where are you holed up?” she asked. “And when are you coming back? Margaux’s been asking about you.”
“I’m staying with Jasper Collins. He’s bought this great old mansion. Eight bedrooms. Bathrooms galore. And a conservatory and a ballroom. Who has a ballroom these days?”
“It certainly sounds . . . ostentatious,” she said. Patricia knew Jasper Collins. He was a very wealthy, very flamboyant character prone to waistcoats, top hats, and brilliantly colored silk ascots. She remembered seeing him at a New Year’s Eve party where she could have sworn he was wearing lipstick.
“You sound so disapproving, Trish. What have you got against Jasper? He’s a great host, a real gas—dinner parties, lawn parties, pool parties, and of course, days at the races. You and Wynn should drive up. Jasper’s always asking after you.”
“The feeling might not be mutual,” she said. She could hear the floorboards creak upstairs; Wynn was still moving around in their bedroom.
“Why not?”
“You know why not,” she said. It was well known in their circle that Jasper preferred the company of men to women, including—no, especially—in the bedroom. Despite his money, he was not exactly the sort of person with whom she wanted to socialize. And she would never have spent the night in his home.
“Oh, that.” Tom was dismissive. “Who cares? He’s great company, you know. You should hear him talk about opera—the man’s a walking musical encyclopedia. He’s promised to take me when we’re back in town. He’s had season tickets at the Met for years.”
“You should care, Tom,” she said. “People will talk if you stay up there too long.”
“People will talk no matter what. I’m not going to live my life differently because they do. And neither should you.”
Before she could reply, Henryka came into the kitchen. Patricia put a hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Could you excuse me for a moment?” Henryka left the room.
“Was that Henryka, my sweetheart, my darling? You tell her that even Jasper’s fancy chef can’t compete with her cooking. Will you tell her that for me?”
“You can tell her yourself, if and when you ever come back. I’m not your go-between, you know.”
“What’s wrong with you today? You’ve done nothing but scold me. Why?”
“Eleanor,” she said quietly. “Or should I say, Eleanor and you.”
“Ah,” said Tom. “So you know?”
“Know what? Is there something I should know? Though she is in my employ, after all. Living in my home.” When Tom said nothing she added, “I found her lipstick on your pillowcase, Tom. I don’t need to tell you how that looks. I didn’t tell Wynn, but he’s already predicting that you’re going to get her pregnant.”
“Wynn believes the worst about people,” Tom said. “But you don’t, Trish. You never have. So I don’t want you to judge her harshly. She’s not what Wynn thinks she is.”
“And what would that be?”
“Cheap. Common.”
“Well, it certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Forget the way it looks. Eleanor has the purest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“So why are you in Saratoga, instead of here, with Lady Pure Heart?”
“To tell you the truth, she scares me.”
“Scares you?”
“It’s that purity of hers. It’s fierce. There’s no dissembling. She says what she thinks. What she feels. I’ve never known anyone quite like her. And her effect on me is a little . . . unsettling.”
“What are you saying?”
“I feel like I’m falling in love with her. That’s why I left. I don’t want to be in love. Not with her, not with anyone.”
“In love?” Alarm ignited inside her like a fire. It was one thing for Tom to flirt with and even seduce Eleanor. Love was another thing entirely. “I thought you wanted to be free. Free as a bird.”
“I do. I always have been. And I’ve liked it that way.”
“Well, it’s been an illusion. No one is free, Tom.” He didn’t answer, so she went on. “What you’re doing is dangerous and even cruel. Someone is going to get hurt.”
“I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone,” Tom said. “You know that much about me, don’t you, Trish?”
“Don’t be an idiot. What makes you think your wanting has anything to do with it?” She heard footsteps on the stairs; Wynn would be down any moment and the conversation, like it or not, was over.
Fifteen
On Monday morning Eleanor lay in bed, reluctant to get up. The air was at first cool, and then warmed gradually. A brilliant, orange-and-black monarch butterfly went fluttering past the window, and somewhere in the distance, a dog began to bark. She shifted, but remained where she was. In her dreams, she’d stumbled through a menacing darkness, been assaulted by loud, percussive sounds. Although she could not actually see him, she knew that a large, hooded figure crouched behind a door. He was waiting—waiting for her.
It had been roughly thirty-six hours since Wynn Bellamy paid her his unannounced and unwelcome visit. Yesterday she had been over to the house but had quickly retreated to the cottage and not gone out since. Late in the afternoon she cautiously opened the door and was grateful to find a tray containing a thermos of soup and two slices of fresh bread wrapped in a kitchen towel. Henryka. Eleanor sipped the soup but had no interest in the bread, and instead balled it into crumbs, for the birds.
How had Henryka managed to face Wynn Bellamy in the weeks, months, and years since he’d done whatever it was he had done to her? And how had she faced Patricia? Eleanor had not seen Patricia or Margaux since Sunday morning. She knew she ought to contact Margaux and yet she couldn’t—she felt paralyzed. There was no one to turn to, no one to ask. She was flooded with shame, guilt, but most of all, self-recrimination. Letting him in when she wasn’t dressed. Agreeing to dance with him. And why hadn’t she screamed? She thought she was protecting herself, but really she was protecting him. She was a fool, an idiot. She deserved what she had gotten—or at least that was what people would say if they knew. But they wouldn’t know because she wasn’t going to tell anyone—ever.
Eleanor forced herself to get up and to dress. She was going to go over to the house. The longer she postponed it, the worse it would be. Outside, the grass was wet. It must have rained during the night. When she reached the back door and let herself into the kitchen, she found Henryka at the stove, frying doughnuts. Oil sizzled as she set rings of dough into the pan. “You all right?”
“Yes, Henryka, I’m all right,” Eleanor said. “Thank you for asking.”
On Saturday night, Henryka had accompanied her to Dr. Parker’s house. After the exam, Eleanor followed him out to the waiting room where Henryka was sitting. “She took a pretty bad knock on the head,” he said. “She has a slight concussion, so someone will need to keep an eye on her.” Henryka had nodded gravely, and she had insisted on s
eeing Eleanor back to the cottage. And although Eleanor said it wasn’t necessary, Henryka spent the night with her, cramming herself into the love seat as best she could. “You can no be alone,” she had said. “Doctor say so.”
Now Henryka was looking at her anxiously. “Everyone in there,” she said. “Mr., missus, and the girl.” When Eleanor didn’t reply, she added, “You need food. Go sit. I bring it.”
Eleanor hesitated for a few seconds; she heard Patricia’s voice, and Margaux’s in reply. And then—Wynn Bellamy. She pushed open the door and there he was, freshly shaved and hair still wet from the shower. He’d been looking down as he spooned his oatmeal but he looked up when she came in. “Good morning, Eleanor. I heard you weren’t feeling well. You’re better, I hope?”
“I’m fine,” she murmured and took a seat. Henryka hurried in with a bowl of oatmeal.
“That’s good,” he said. “We can’t have you getting sick, now can we? Not on our watch.”
Patricia and Margaux were quiet and their silence made Eleanor as uncomfortable as Wynn’s joviality. Could either of them know what had happened to her? That was impossible though. Or maybe it hadn’t happened—or at least not the way she was remembering. Wynn showed no sign of discomfort, no apparent remorse.
“Do you want another cup of coffee before I drive you to the station?” Patricia finally said. “Henryka’s bringing out a fresh pot.”
His mouth was full, so he nodded.
He was leaving. Mr. Bellamy was leaving. Eleanor’s relief was so enormous she could have laughed out loud. But she didn’t. Instead she paid careful attention to their conversation. Mr. Bellamy seemed his usual self, but Patricia was clearly on edge. And Margaux said nothing, which was not at all like her. Henryka appeared with the coffee and a platter of fresh doughnuts. Mr. Bellamy reached for one, and his sleeve rose up just the slightest bit. Peeking out from his crisp, white shirt cuff were a few small scratches, scabbed over and innocuous. But Eleanor stared as if they gushed fresh blood and she could not look at them a single second longer— “You’ll have to excuse me.” She rose so abruptly that she knocked her chair back and it hit the floor. “I’m not well, I’ll just go back to the cottage and—”
“Eleanor, what’s wrong—” Patricia got up and righted the chair. Margaux cried, “Are you all right?” The only one who said nothing was Wynn Bellamy, who continued drinking his coffee.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, waving off Patricia’s efforts to accompany her. “Please, just let me go and lie down.”
Back in the cottage, she got into bed, burrowed under a blanket, and let the trembling overtake her. She couldn’t stay here, she couldn’t go. Then she remembered the conversation at the table—Mr. Bellamy was leaving, he would be gone. She wouldn’t have to see him for a few days. Her decision could wait. The trembling subsided and she got up.
During her examination on Saturday night, Dr. Parker had asked if she’d been drinking. “No,” she had said. “Why do you ask?” She was mortified that he thought she was a falling-down drunk.
“That bump on the back of your head. An injury like that suggests there was a strong impact, like you were pushed or fell down a flight of stairs. Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Eleanor looked at his thin, lined face, with its incongruously dapper pencil mustache above the upper lip. His dark-brown eyes seemed neither especially kind nor especially hostile; they were opaque, cutting off all access to his thoughts. She hadn’t anticipated this conversation when she’d asked Henryka to bring her here. She only knew that her head hurt, badly, and she needed some kind of medical attention.
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
He hadn’t pressed.
Eleanor went to the window. Tom’s car was still there, but the Bellamys’ car was gone, which meant Patricia and Mr. Bellamy were gone too. What a relief. She could go back over to the house and call home. Yes, that was a very good idea. Since she’d been here, she’d been writing to Irina. But right now she needed to hear her mother’s voice. It was a long-distance call, and she hadn’t asked if she could make one. She could mention it later though. And offer to pay for the charges.
When Eleanor let herself in, the kitchen was empty and with shaking fingers, she dialed the number and clutched the phone tightly as it rang and rang. Strange. It was Monday, a time Irina ought to have been in the shop. But she was not. Eleanor put the phone back on the receiver and went out onto the sunporch, where Margaux was sprawled on the sofa, listening to the radio. When she saw Eleanor, she sat up and switched it off. “How are you?” she said. “Mother was worried. So was I.”
What about your father? Was he worried too? “I’m fine now,” said Eleanor. “You don’t need to worry.”
“I told Mother you were homesick,” Margaux said.
“Why did you tell her that?” Eleanor sank into the sofa.
“Because it’s true,” Margaux said. Glow walked by, swishing her tail, and Margaux reached for her. The creature adroitly eluded her grasp and padded off. “I told her to let you go home for the weekend. To see your mother.”
“What did she say?” Eleanor asked. This was it—the answer to her dilemma. She could go home for a few days and see Irina, maybe see Ruth or one of her college friends. It would be just what she needed. Then she could come back and all would be as it had been before.
“She said she’d talk to you.” There was the sound of a car pulling up to the house. “That’s her now. You can ask her.”
Patricia came in adjusting her blouse, which had come untucked from her skirt. “Eleanor!” she said. “I was just going to check on you. Maybe we ought to take a drive over to see Dr. Parker.”
“No!” Eleanor said.
“Well, all right.” Patricia seemed a little surprised by her reaction. “If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t want you to go to any trouble. I’m fine. Really.”
“Ask her about going home,” Margaux urged.
“Going home?” Patricia said.
“Yes. I wanted to visit my mother. It wouldn’t be for long. I’d leave on Friday afternoon and be back on Sunday.”
“You really miss her, don’t you?” Patricia said.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “And she misses me too, though she won’t come out and say so.”
“That’s sweet,” Patricia said. “You must be very close. I’d like to meet her sometime.”
“I think you did. She said you stopped by the store one day and bought a hat from her.” Eleanor had not meant to bring this up but the words felt like they leaped from her mouth of their own accord.
“Oh, that’s right.” Patricia looked uncomfortable.
“You didn’t introduce yourself,” Eleanor said. Why was she going on about this? She knew she shouldn’t.
“No? I thought I had,” said Patricia.
Eleanor was angry that Patricia was lying about a visit that at this moment felt like an invasion. Yet another one. Then she regretted her tone. “Not, of course, that it matters. I’ll just let her know I’m coming.”
She followed Patricia into the kitchen and placed the call. “Your timing couldn’t have been better,” Irina said. “I need your help—there’s been a flood.”
“In the basement?” asked Eleanor. Her mother had a small storage area and it had flooded before.
“Where else?”
“Have you told the landlord?”
“Yes, but you know how he is about that . . .” Irina was the only one in the building who used the basement, so the landlord felt she ought to be the one to maintain it, especially since he was already giving her a break on the rent.
“Did you lose a lot of stock? Supplies?”
“There’s at least six inches of water on the floor so I haven’t been able to check,” said Irina. “But I know I lost a whole box of silk flowers, another one of netting, and—”
“I’ll be down on the next train.” Eleanor could see her mother’s familiar, w
orried expression, the crease between her brows, the nervous pursing of her lips. She’d be perched there on those rickety little steps, trying to calculate the severity of the damage, the extent of her loss. Of course Eleanor had to help her. She turned to see Patricia; she had forgotten she was in the room.
“I’m sorry, I heard everything; is there anything I can do?” Patricia said.
“There’s been a flood at the shop. I’ve got to get down to New York today, actually.”
“Of course,” Patricia said. “I’ll take you to the station myself. That’s really too bad.”
“I’ll need to pack,” Eleanor said. “It won’t take me long.” She left Patricia in the kitchen and walked out the door, in the direction of the cottage. Then she stopped. Why had Wynn Bellamy suffered no censure, no consequence? Instead, he got to eat doughnuts and drink coffee; his unsuspecting wife had driven him to the station where he boarded a train to Boston and conveniently left Eleanor—mortified, questioning, churning—behind. The injustice of this felt intolerable.
Eleanor walked out of the house and over to the pair of cars that were parked side by side. The Bellamys’ car was new and sleek, a burnt orange Cadillac with a gleaming silver bird on the hood. Tom’s car was a bit of a wreck, but it still ran. Where was Tom, anyway? Why hadn’t he been in touch?
To her surprise, the keys were still in the Cadillac; Patricia must have forgotten them. Eleanor had a sudden urge to get in the car and drive off—but where? Somewhere far away from Wynn Bellamy. Those scratches on his arm—did he know or care that she had seen them? And why didn’t he worry about what his wife or daughter would think? Because he wasn’t afraid of her, that was why—he knew she wouldn’t tell.
Eleanor opened the door on the driver’s side and got in. Hit by the morning sun, the keys shone brightly. You can do this, they seemed to say. You must. She turned the ignition and jumped a little as the car came to life. Here was the gas pedal, there was the brake. Could she remember what to do? Yes, she thought, as she slowly guided the car down the gravel driveway and out toward the road. She could.