“Oh, you’re very kind, but . . .,” Helene began. Her feet shifted and she didn’t seem to know where to look.
Ruby’s smile was uncomprehending as she patted both their cheeks, speaking of God’s perfect pearl of matrimony. Faye gulped. The woman perhaps had a bit of dementia, but she meant no harm. However, she might advertise Ed and Helene everywhere as married. Faye did her best to help by politely taking her towards the door and setting her on the right way home.
“What is that noise?” Ed asked as she came back. He didn’t look at Helene, not out of ungallantry, but out of intense self-consciousness.
The noise was dinner. The others were eating out on the lawn, happily—if somewhat awkwardly—perched on the edges of flower beds or on lawn chairs, with little card tables set out in front of them. The meal was delightfully informal as the young people hovered in animated knots over the small tables. Ed soon found the movie scout, and the two of them went aside, slurping drinks. But Faye was not allowed to eat for long. The telephone rang and she had to dash back inside. It seemed some local schoolboys out on the property were not yet accounted for. Their parents were worried.
“What?” Faye shouted into the telephone. It was hard to hear because Aunt Cora and Grover’s voices had suddenly risen in argument. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Wait, what? Your son is dead? Oh, I apologize . . . .”
Faye was not able to be of much assistance in the case of the possibly dead teenage boy. She hadn’t been the one to let him enter the property, nor had she been the one to lose him there. After the caller understood this, she hung up and left a sudden silence. Faye returned to the lawn, where Grover was indeed arguing—actually fighting—with Aunt Cora. This was unusual. Most of the time the two had an oddly peaceful stalemate. Faye, slipping back into her place and taking a bite of sandwich, watched them uncomfortably. Perhaps the emotions of the disorganized rental scheme were becoming too negative, too high-pitched. She hoped not. There was no reason for everyone not to remain the best of friends.
“Look, I promised those Watertons they could book the gazebo for Saturday night. And Saturday night it will be,” Grover snapped.
Aunt Cora drummed her fist on the table. “But this man’s family is oil-rich, I tell you! These Watertons are nothing. People like that sit outside every day of the year. Reschedule them, darling.”
BeBe refused to participate in the discussion, except to peek at Artie as he speared his pork chop and set about eating hers the same way. She didn’t seem to remember seeing Faye in the bathroom, for which Faye was very glad. BeBe did sometimes let things slip, especially if there was something on her mind like a baby or a boyfriend. Or Artie, who wasn’t exactly either but was certainly on her thoughts.
“Aunt Cora, shut up!” Grover yelled. “It’s going to be the way I say it’s going to be. Is that clear?”
Aunt Cora’s mouth tightened. “But Grover, dear, your father left me in charge while he was in Hawaii. It’s only for the good of the family that I . . .”
“You in charge?” Artie interrupted. “That’s a laugh, old dame. It’s me. And I can promise you this house will be run quite as well as when that antiquated old buzzard was in it.”
Aunt Cora rose from her chair. “Old dame, is it?”
There was a concerned gasp. Aunt Cora was a sweet and wonderful person, very much loved by all. They certainly would never want to give an impression otherwise. As he was the guilty party, Artie’s face went purple and he drank some water rapidly. Helene tactfully steered the conversation to an inquiry about the profits of the lying-and-renting scheme so far, and Aunt Betty less tactfully made much of her future son-in-law.
“You are going to marry Myrtle, aren’t you?” She beamed lethargically. “The first of my children to be married. Ah, memories. You know, many years ago I got married myself.”
She smiled so significantly that Mr. Rivers felt forced to answer, even though he was feeling quite sullen after his impromptu bath and would certainly have preferred not to publicly reference Myrtle. Someone—not Faye—had kindly lent him a loose-fitting pajama shirt, which he now sported under his soaked towel and long face. “Ah? Ha ha, how fine. I imagine so. To Mr. Haverton—I assume.”
Aunt Betty nodded gravely. “Yes, to Warren L. himself!” Reaching over, she benevolently squeezed his hand. “I’m so happy for you and Myrtle. It’s a great responsibility to be married after Warren and me. I’m not sure you will live up to it. We set the gold standard. Are you anything like Warren?”
Myrtle turned crimson and looked away. Mr. Rivers was a bit perplexed, which lessened his embarrassment about the topic. “Perhaps—I hope so on the whole. I haven’t met him, so I don’t know what he’s like. But I once visited Bermuda. I have been viewed as quite the fisherman and have studied it much throughout my life . . . .”
The next morning opened with Faye out in the garden alongside Grover. They were back at those ornamental trenches. She was getting better at digging them, she flattered herself, and though gardening wasn’t her favorite hobby, she was glad to pitch in to help Grover. The trouble was, Grover had kept her digging for weeks until there were now so many trenches it was hard to find a place to stand. Because hoses had been set to run through some of them, there an additional danger of slipping into a damp channel of mud. But Faye was dexterous and managed to stay dry.
After plowing steadily for three hours, she took a small break. Munching on a pastry and holding a blue Cherry Blossom glass filled with lemonade, she felt it a good idea to make certain of Mr. Rivers’ whereabouts. Myrtle, running out of commands for her fiancé, had ordered him last night to “repair the plumbing”—an edict Faye secretly considered very unwise. Fifteen minutes passed as she drifted around the house, fifteen minutes without a sign of Mr. Rivers. Or of anyone else. Ordinarily Aunt Cora, Artie, or Myrtle would be somewhere around, but the house was mysteriously very silent. Where is everyone?
“Yow!” she shrieked, her lemonade spilling onto her dress as Ed burst out at her from the library. Protesting, she wrung out the skirt. “Ed, what do you think you’re doing? I swear, you almost killed me.”
Behind him Faye glimpsed Helene in the library. Is that Myrtle’s . . . wedding veil? Ed’s face had an odd expression and Helene looked highly self-conscious as he took Faye’s hand and dragged her in to join them. He insisted it would only be a minute and he would take the blame if Grover wanted her back in the garden. Faye entered slowly, honestly quite baffled. Chuckling, Ed took Helene’s arm in his as they stood side by side like little statues. Their gaze on Faye was expectant, like traffic lights slowly changing from red to green.
“We want you to marry us, Faye,” he announced.
“You want me to what?” Through the library window she glimpsed Grover talking to a man she recognized. His name was Corbie, and he worked the land that immediately bordered the back of the Haverton property. Uncle Warren was his landlord and often sent Faye to inquire of Mr. Corbie—who was always rather irritable when receiving her—about the crops and the rent. So Grover wouldn’t be chasing her down for more trench work for at least the next few minutes. She supposed she could safely help. But why on earth . . .
Helene slapped Ed’s arm with her leather pocketbook. “Oh, not for real. I don’t think I’m in line for the real thing just yet. Don’t get the wrong idea.” She beamed brightly at Faye.
Actually, I’m kind of a vacant chair at the moment. You surprised all ideas out of my head. “Um . . . a mock wedding? I don’t understand. Why would you need to do that?”
Ed shrugged. “Faye, it’s not hard to understand. Speed up your brain. We’ve agreed to pretend to be married to help forward Grover’s scheme.” He bopped Helene’s nose. “Although I will be getting back to you on that ‘real thing’ statement. Anyway, Faye, it’s because of that old woman. We thought it would be better to play along since she probably spread the word we’re married. If people learn the story’s not true, it won’t take long before they start unravelin
g all the other stories Grover’s made up around here.”
I’m shocked they haven’t already figured it all out yet.
Helene pulled out a chair for Faye and fluttered around the room like a giant moth avoiding a net. “So we pinched Dan’s marriage ceremony book. First we will reenact the proposal and then you will marry us. Simple, right?”
Faye held up a hand. “Wait, why would you need to ‘reenact’ the proposal?”
Helene gulped. “Well, I know you’ll laugh and despise me, but I have to view myself as married to this man—your cousin, Ed.”
Faye laughed. “Oh, Helene, I wouldn’t despise you for being married to Ed. Feel very, very sorry for you, perhaps. The situation would create compassion in anyone who saw you.” She didn’t care if Ed heard her. What they were doing was absurd, and he ought to know her opinion of it.
Helene turned vaguely pink. “Oh, I’m sure you would never be mean. And it’s only mock, after all. I agree, something more serious might be profoundly unpleasant.”
Ed almost jumped in his skin. “Wait . . . what did you say?” His brows drew together. “I am amazing. I don’t know why you would even say that.”
Well, this is nice. I’ve wanted to wipe that smirk off Ed’s face for years. I’m so glad he decided to pretend to be married after all.
“But I can’t visualize it,” Helene admitted. “I realized I can’t interact in a realistic way with him without having a proposal and ceremony to remember. I’m just not very imaginative.”
Faye eyed the slim brown book Helene shoved into her hand. All right.
Ed and Helene fumbled a little at first, but eventually settled down with Ed lounged in a chair as Helene sat on the edge of the table and raised her skirt an inch. “You know I need you, babe. I need ya. I need a real man. A man who’s a man,” she gulped.
Ed rose briskly and looked out the window. “Forget it. I’ve got no time in my life for a female. A man’s got things to do in this life, and a dolled-up girl just holds him down.”
Helene clasped her hands. “Don’t leave me, Haverton! I tell ya I need a man. I don’t have any reason to love ya, but love’s not about reason, Haverton! It’s about you.”
Faye was mildly startled. This is how you see your proposal? Yeesh. I’ll try to make sure Bogart doesn’t crash my big moment like that.
Ed suddenly turned and shouted at Helene. “Hold onto me, woman? You’d weigh me down, you mean. Shackle me to an effeminate life. It’s a man’s, man’s world, in which he stands alone!”
Helene abruptly jumped off the table and stiffly took his hand. “All right, that’s enough. Faye, could you please be sweet and read the wedding. Mr. Haverton, stand there and don’t move or talk. We can just imagine I said yes, right?”
Wait, that’s it? Ed had gone motionless and expressionless, and therefore was unlikely to negate Helene’s words. He seemed to have turned into a poker manifestation of a man’s form, substituted for someone real who was now absent. Wedding jitters, no doubt, poor dear Ed. So Faye obediently shuffled through the book, but had only read about half a line of the wedding page when a thud shook the house.
She broke off. “What was that?”
Chapter 13
Faye rushed downstairs, followed by Ed and Helene. In the hall they found Artie yelling at Aunt Cora while Mrs. Waterton rapped her umbrella, trying to get their attention. Grover entered from outside, running a hand through his greasy hair as a horde of thudding dark shapes shook the garden doors he was evacuating from. Are those cows? Oh my goodness gracious! Apparently, Grover had allowed someone to feed cattle on a distant pasture somewhere on the property. The fences in this area were bad and the cattle had broken out and stampeded the lake pavilion, destroying the Waterton’s concert. Their guests now poured in through the front door, demanding a refund. Myrtle and Horace arrived from somewhere and joined Faye where she stood with Helene. No one was sure how to respond. What could possibly be helpful in the face of so many disasters?
The front door slammed with unusual force. Who is that? It doesn’t sound like a familiar knock. It was, in fact, the farmer Angus Corbie. Face swelled with indignation, he headed straight for Grover.
“Those hooligan boys you allowed by the lake burned down my house! Burnt it to the ground. Accident or not, I want them caught and I want you to pay for the damage. I may rent it, but it’s your father’s property, so it’s his responsibility to rebuild my home. Fair is fair!”
Grover was defiant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh dear, I think maybe I do. I guess that solves the case of the dead teenage boy. “Excuse me,” she said aloud, gently tugging Mr. Corbie’s thick, waterproof coat. “Excuse me a moment?”
He jerked away as if he’d felt a cobra crawling up his muddy sleeve. “Yes, what do you want?”
Faye smiled very sweetly. Mellowly even. “You see, I got this call last night, Grover, from a woman whose son hadn’t come home and she thought he might be dead somewhere on the property. She was very worried.”
Mr. Corbie looked offended. “Well, he’s not dead, but he’ll soon wish he was. He camped out with two other kids and then set a match around my back door. How or why, I don’t know. That’s for you to deal with, young man. No, just move aside. Is your father here? Where’s the man in charge?”
Artie strode forward. “That, my good agricultural man, would be me. And this IS my house and watch your step, my good man. My word is law here.”
The farmer eyed him scornfully. “It’d better be the real law because I’m going to sue you, Haverton or whoever you are. I’ll sue you.”
The Carters and Myrtle stood tongue-tied and helpless. Their sophisticated wit about social amorality left them no resources against angry farmers and legal procedures. Faye pressed her nose against the garden door. Someone has got to remove those cattle. Oh no! They were falling into Grover’s trenches, lowing and lumbering in the mud.
Aunt Cora put a hand on her hip. “Put an end to this right now. I demand it as your mother! You can’t impersonate any farther now the law is in question.”
Artie seized a tall straw basket from the table and stuffed it over her face. “There! That is what I think of you, you old rat! Now, good agricultural man, where was I . . .?”
Faye ran into the garden. Ed was already outside, using a stick to push one stupid mother cow and her calf out of a ring of stones. As Faye tried to catch up to him she lost her footing and tumbled into one of the trenches. Mud spewed over her, soaking her from head to foot. A cow lumbered ponderously over her head, looking as if it thought itself very superior to humans. Faye rose to a sitting position, gasping and spitting grass out of her mouth. On the whole, in a light, harmless sort of way, she was profoundly miserable.
“Yes, thank you very much. Have a safe drive back to Chicago,” said a man’s voice.
Desperately gripping the slippery, dirty slope, Faye crawled up to rest her elbows on the edge of the trench. Her uncle was standing right there, his back turned to her as a black Ford car departed. Uncle Warren was . . . here? It can’t be. He was a touch more tanned, but the same dear, elegant-and-proper uncle she’d known all these years. As she clambered awkwardly out Ed saw his father and immediately the two were talking.
“Yes, um . . . we’ve been doing well. Just improving the garden a little, as you see,” Ed exclaimed brightly, putting an arm around her. He appeared to overlook her muddy, sticky, semi-transparent dress. She shook out her skirt, grimacing in disgust. Is that a pillbug? Mud trickled down her neck as she scratched behind her ear. She was sure there was another little bug back there somewhere.
Uncle Warren’s skeptical gaze took in the garden, the trenches, and above all the cattle. Faye wondered what he would do when he discovered all the strange people in the house. “Well, I appreciate what seems to have been very hard work. But why irrigate? You’re ten inches over average rainfall for the year. When we heard about the inundation here, we joked that the Polynesian rai
n gods had abandoned Hawaii and moved to the Great Lakes.”
“Ah?” Ed said, uneasily. He tried to ignore the house, out of which truculent voices were increasing in volume.
Uncle Warren’s eyes went in that direction. “What in the blazes is that noise?”
Faye and Ed tumbled in after him as he strode into the living room. Artie and the outraged Angus Corbie had come to literal blows in Faye’s absence, while the Waterton party surrounded Grover in a little knot screaming for reimbursement. Helene fluttered to and fro like a disoriented ghost, the wedding veil still on her head. Uncle Warren’s brows contracted as he stood on the edge of the scene, unnoticed by all. Faye wrapped a towel around her shoulders and rubbed more mud out of her ear.
Artie shook his fist at Mr. Corbie. “ . . . I’m Warren Haverton. The man himself. I don’t fraternize with shabby locals who should mind their own business. God made somebody better than others and that somebody is me.”
Uncle Warren twitched his lips and frowned at this presentation of himself. Grover and Mr. Waterton barely managed to restrain the farmer from knocking Artie flat as Aunt Cora dug her sharp fingers into Artie’s arm. He released himself by slapping her across the face.
“Well, great man or otherwise you owe me a thousand dollars, Mr. Haverton!” Angus growled. “I’ll see you in court.”
“Excuse me,” said Uncle Warren quietly.
A universal shriek erupted. Screaming led to more screaming and then to anxious glances from all to locate the source of the confusion. They soon pinpointed Uncle Warren, who quietly waved at them, an enigmatic smile on his face. Helene blinked sheepishly and quickly removed the veil, balling it up in her hands.
“Dad?” Myrtle blurted out. “When did you get here? We thought it would be another month.”
Uncle Warren glanced around the room. Lowing from an egregious cow right outside the window fell painfully on the sudden, distressing silence. “I was able to come back early. The ranch is in good order.” His eyes scanned the numberless changes to the room. Faye winced as she saw his gaze did not overlook the untidy and broken ivory figurines. “Which is more than I can say for this house.”
Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen) Page 11