The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  William grinned, shaking his head. “You remember the last time Mama caught you eavesdropping.”

  “Yes, and you didn’t rescue me at all.” Birdie shuddered at the memory of Mama’s sharp spanking.

  “I dare you, then.” William jutted his chin toward the library door. “Find out what they’re saying and I’ll give you all of my penny candy.”

  “All of it?” William never shared his candy.

  “All of it. But you can’t get caught by Mama or any of the servants.”

  Birdie started for the stairs, her pulse racing. Then stopped. “I can’t.”

  “What? Chicken?” William was the Shehorn heir, the favored son of the family, a champion at everything. She was the little sister. The lurker in the shadows.

  “You have to give me all the money in your piggy bank too.”

  “Done.” William’s grin was evident even in the darkness.

  Step by step, Birdie descended, not daring to breathe, and cracked open the library door . . .

  Birdie stared at the desk, her focus coming clear on the middle drawer. Well, she must get to work while she had the time. She retrieved her writing pad and pen, gazing toward the light falling through the window.

  Mama banished the desk to the attic, where it sat alone under the cold eaves. It wasn’t until years later, upon the anniversary of William’s death, that Birdie discovered its hiding place. She’d gone to the attic to reminisce of their rainy summer afternoon playtimes—when she and William had the run of the long, wide room.

  “Miss Birdie, are you up here?”

  Birdie whirled to see her maid, Fatine, at the head of the stairs. “How did you find me?”

  Fatine gripped her hands at her waist. “We’ve all seen you sneak up here from time to time. But don’t despair, your secret is safe with us.”

  “What do you need?”

  “You’ve a gentleman caller. Mr. Van Cliff.”

  “Here? Now? Did he say what he wants?” Birdie did not wish to see him. She wished to be alone, to write.

  “It’s not my place to ask.”

  “Of course. Please tell Mr. Van Cliff I’ll be along.”

  “Do you want to change?” Fatine gestured toward Birdie’s day dress. “Your new blue frock is beautiful on you.”

  “What I’m wearing is fine.” Birdie smoothed the cream-colored wool of her skirt. She didn’t care to be appealing for Alfonse.

  Alfonse stood as Birdie entered the drawing room, the southern windows behind him full of January light. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “And if I said you were?”

  His eyes lit with amusement. “Then I’d beg your pardon and see myself out.”

  “Alfonse, my apologies for my daughter’s words.” Birdie spun to see Mama in the far corner with her needlepoint. “Birdie studied clever retorts at Wellesley. She likes to practice them on the unsuspecting.”

  “Not true, Mama.” Birdie smiled. “I practice only on the suspecting.”

  “Birdie, have a care. Alfonse, won’t you be seated?” Mama focused on threading her needle. “Percival is bringing coffee.”

  Birdie remained standing. “Actually, I’m in the middle of—”

  “Sit down, Birdie. Whatever you were doing can wait.”

  She sighed, debating her mother’s command. Then sat.

  “I hear you’re building in the Berkshires.” Alfonse perched next to her on the sofa, his eyes roaming her face.

  “Papa and Mama are, yes.” Birdie shifted to one side, finding Alfonse’s intense attention disarming.

  “It pleases me”—Alfonse inched closer, cupping his hand over hers, his skin hot and clammy—“that you like our little neck of the woods.”

  “Like I said, it will be Papa and Mama’s home.” Birdie pulled her hand free, cradling it in her lap. “Why have you come to see me?”

  “To . . . to see how you fare. You were beautiful at the Astors’ ball last night. Your red gown was becoming.”

  Percival entered with the coffee, pouring each a cup.

  “How about a game of bridge, Alfonse? I’ll rouse Mr. Shehorn to partner with me. Birdie, shall you and Alfonse make a team?”

  It was a statement more than a question.

  “I’d love to but I’m otherwise engaged tonight. Perhaps another evening.” Alfonse shifted his attention to Birdie. “I came to see if Birdie would like to attend a lecture with me. At St. Paul’s Sunday evening. On the history of the Great Awakening. We discussed this spiritual phenomenon once, and I thought you’d find the session enlightening.”

  “A lecture on the Great Awakening? Who shall be our chaperone?”

  “Lord Montague has agreed to go along. He’s interested in the spiritual phenomena of that time. Of course Whitefield was his countryman.”

  “Lord Montague?” Birdie smiled over her coffee at Mama. “How delightful. I’d love to attend.”

  Mama pressed her lips together and drove her needle through her canvas. “I should think he’d have more pressing things to attend to. What with pursuing Rose Gottlieb. Does he intend to invite her along as well? Mr. Shehorn and I would be delighted to chaperone, Alfonse.”

  “Mama, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you and Papa. Not with the season just beginning,” Birdie taunted. Mama hated preaching. She attended church only to be seen by people, not God.

  “Think nothing of it. It would be a joy to hear this speaker.” Mama’s voice fell as if she could hardly believe her own claim. “I too have been fascinated by the Great Awakening.”

  “I’d never place such an imposition on you, Mrs. Shehorn,” Alfonse said, clueless to Mama’s maneuvering. “Elijah is eager to come along.”

  “Then it’s all arranged. Why don’t we have a light supper here before we go. What do you say, Mama?”

  “If you wish.” Mama smiled politely, but she was not happy.

  Oh, Mama, can’t you trust me? Let me fly a little?

  “The lecture is at eight,” Alfonse said.

  “Then we’ll have supper at six. Though I won’t be hungry at that hour.”

  Alfonse bid them adieu, bowing to kiss Birdie’s hand. “I’ll look forward to Sunday evening.”

  When he’d gone, Mama set aside her needlepoint. “You think you’ve pulled one over on me.”

  “Why would I think such a thing? Alfonse arranged this outing.”

  “You watch yourself. Lord Montague belongs to Rose, and if you interfere, you will drag all our names through the mud. And be more receptive to Alfonse. He’s trying to court you.”

  Birdie moved toward the library door. “You don’t want me to make it easy on him, do you?”

  “Indeed I do. You will marry him, Birdie Shehorn. I’ll have my way. Make no mistake.”

  ELIJAH

  The cable from Mama reminded him he was not here to pursue his own interests or desires, but to secure his family name and heritage.

  In his Holland House room, Eli read Mam’s cable for the third time before dropping it in the fire, Mama’s words reading the same each time. Direct and succinct.

  “Remain steadfast. Remember your duty.”

  She used the words of his heart, addressing him as a solider. As a captain in Her Majesty’s army, Eli understood duty. Lived and breathed it. How much more must he be devoted to Hapsworth and his family name?

  Centuries of Ainsworth marquesses performed their duty, man after man securing the Percy position as a British peer.

  But it seemed to Eli that as he stood atop the Ainsworth ancestral mountain, he was unsure of the ground beneath his feet.

  The implicit urgency in Mama’s note lingered in his belly. Did he have the courage to propose to a woman he did not love? Even more so, could he ask her to marry a man who did not love her?

  Blast that weekend in the Berkshires. He had it all sorted out in his heart and mind until he saw Birdie.

  Then all his resolve melted, and he cared very much that his marriage might not know love.

&n
bsp; Benedict entered from the adjoining room, handing Eli a cane more suited to an evening out. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you. What plans have you for this evening?”

  “I thought I’d take in the Great White Way.”

  Eli made a face. “And what, pray tell, is the Great White Way?”

  “What they’re calling Broadway these days, sir. Are you sure you don’t need me for anything? I feel guilty with so much time on my hands.”

  “Consider it payback for the war.” Eli handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Have dinner on me.”

  “This is too generous, sir, but thank you.”

  A knock sounded, and Benedict opened it to Alfonse, who stood on the other side sporting his dashing grin.

  “Evening, Benedict. Eli, shall we go?” Alfonse picked up the cable envelope. “Everything all right back home?”

  “Yes, just a greeting from Mama.” Benedict helped him into his coat, then handed him his hat and cane. Eli reached for the envelope, tossing it into the fire.

  It was one thing for people to know his family needed money. It was quite enough to leave about evidence that he was seeking a profitable marriage as a way of reconciling their debts.

  “When you write home, give your parents my regards.” Alfonse started out the door, then paused. “Might I ask you a pointed question, Eli?”

  “I’m an open book.”

  “Is there an affection between you and Birdie Shehorn?”

  “She’s a friend.” Eli glanced away, popping his hat onto his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “Mere curiosity. Nothing more?”

  “Nothing more.”

  The more he declared it, the more he would believe it. He was a gentleman of the highest regard, and he must remember why he came to America.

  TWELVE

  TENLEY

  She’d settled Blanche with a cup of soup and crackers in bed, the TV remote on hand. “How do you feel?”

  “Like death.” They’d gone in for another morning chemotherapy session, then Blanche slept away the afternoon.

  “The doctor said you’ll feel better in a couple of days.” Tenley powered on the TV, surfing to a rerun of Blue Bloods.

  “But first I have to feel like this.” Blanche scooped her soup, sniffing, curling her lip. “What is this?”

  “Chicken soup. Just like you wanted.”

  “It smells horrible.” She shoved it away. “I thought you were going to make homemade.”

  “I told you I don’t cook.” Tenley moved the soup forward on the tray and pointed to the bell on the bedside table. “Ring if you need me. I’m going to clean up the kitchen, start a load of laundry, and maybe write a little bit.”

  “Wash that robe.” Blanche flicked her hand at Tenley’s getup.

  “I can’t, I’m wearing it.” She had started to wear it to the hospital, but Blanche refused to go if she didn’t change.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you any better?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.”

  They’d fallen into a rhythm, facing the breaches in their relationship with a bit of sarcasm.

  As for the robe, it felt the same as the desk. Like it was part of her somehow, and her journey to figure out if she was going to succeed or fail.

  Call them security blankets, but she was clinging to the robe and desk.

  “Oh.” She paused at the door. “Remember to drink your water.”

  “I heard the doc, Tenley. They zapped a few cells, not my hearing.”

  “Just making sure.”

  Blanche slurped her soup, trying not to make a face. “Thank you, Ten, and I mean it.”

  “Y-you’re welcome.”

  “I read your book, you know.” Blanche’s voice cracked and faded. “Someone to Love. It was good. You’ve got talent.”

  Tenley fell against the door frame. “It’s just a romance. Nothing to wow the literary world.”

  “Yet you won the Phipps Roth Award. Don’t you know? All of life is about a romance.” Blanche crumbled a handful of crackers into her soup.

  “Did you find romance in all your marriages, Blanche?”

  “I made a lot of mistakes. Don’t be like me. Find a good man and cling to him.”

  “I found a good man.” Holt. She was missing him this week and had sent several texts during Blanche’s chemo session, but he had yet to respond. “But I’m here with you instead of in Paris with him.”

  “The cowboy?”

  “The screenwriter.”

  “The one in France who never calls?”

  “He calls.”

  “When?”

  “When you’re not paying attention.”

  Blanche waved her spoon at Tenley. “I’ll tell you a good man. Jonas Sullivan. If I were twenty years younger—”

  “Twenty?”

  “Rats, the girl can count. Okay, thirty.”

  “Did you really leave Dad because he wanted to be a janitor and experience life?”

  “That was my reason back then. But in hindsight I think I was just overwhelmed with motherhood. Probably had postpartum and didn’t know it.”

  “For nine years?”

  Blanche sniffed a scoop of her soup, made a face, and took another bite. “I wasn’t cut out for it, Tenley. I was afraid of breaking you or ruining you in some way.”

  “Remember my eighth birthday? You threw me a big party somewhere, I can’t remember, and we had a pony ride and ice cream. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. A year later, it was just Dad and me eating a Happy Meal.”

  “I never stopped loving you.” Another slurp of soup and Blanche shoved it aside.

  “Well, it sure felt that way when I was nine. Are you finished?” Tenley motioned to the tray. “I’ll leave the crackers. Get some rest.”

  “You were fine, Tenley. With your dad. Look at you, accomplished and beautiful. Though you apparently didn’t inherit my fashion sense. Are you really going to wear that robe every day?”

  “It goes with the desk.” Tenley paused at the door. “You’re right, I was fine with Dad. But neither one of us was fine without you.”

  Dropping the tray in the kitchen, Tenley muffled a determined sob behind her hand, holding back her tears.

  The quips and confessions of forgiveness enabled her to have a relationship with Blanche, and she was grateful. Surprisingly so. But at the end of the day, the woman was part mother, part stranger, and Tenley had to weep for the lost years.

  Pushing through the kitchen door onto the veranda, Tenley faced the beach and the breeze, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her robe. The light of the pink and orange sunset trailed across the fading blue sky.

  She snapped a picture and sent it to Holt.

  Miss you, babe. How’s it going?

  To her delight, he responded immediately.

  Amazing!

  She waited. And? But her phone remained silent. Forget this texting business. Phones are also for vocal conversation. Pressing the phone to her ear, she sat on the steps waiting for him to pick up, the cool current of the beach breeze swirling under the porch eaves.

  Disappointed when his voice mail answered, she left a message. “Holt, hey, it’s me. I miss you. Call me if you can. Feels like forever since we talked. Glad everything is amazing in Paris. Blanche had another treatment today. She’s doing well. Me too, you know, in case you were wondering. Love you.”

  She hung up, cradling her phone in her hand, listening to the sound of the waves just beyond the palmettos.

  Holt, where are you? What’s going on? A blip of anxiety met with her longing for him, and doubt seeped in.

  She should’ve gone with him. Shouldn’t have made room for him to doubt her love. She should’ve told him, “Yes!”

  Tenley clapped her right hand over her left. She should wear her ring. Snap a picture for him.

  Her legs twitched. She needed to move. Go. Do. Something. Anything. From the corner of her eye, she saw an old beach cruiser leaning a
gainst the house. A bike ride. That’s what she needed. A ride on a bike.

  Pocketing her phone, Tenley bumped the bike off the porch and headed out, her hair falling freely from her ponytail.

  She sailed down A1A, her robe flapping behind her, away from the pedals and chain.

  Motorists swerved past, swearing at her with their car horns. But Tenley pedaled on with no notion of a destination. Sweat beaded on her skin though the wind pressed against her with a sharp coolness.

  Holt. Pedal, pedal. Blanche. Pedal, pedal, pedal. Cancer. Pedal, pedal, pedal, PEDAL! Book deadline. Pedal.

  The wheel slipped off into the berm, bogging down in the sandy soil, jerking the bike to one side. Tenley wrestled with the handlebars to keep upright.

  “Hey!” A truck pulled alongside her. “What are you doing?”

  Eyes fixed ahead, she bore down, pedaling through the sand and grass, sweating. Ignore him. Just keep moving.

  “Tenley, it’s me, Jonas. The desk thief. Pull over.”

  She pedaled faster. “You said I could keep the desk until my book is done.”

  “Get to the Publix parking lot before you kill yourself.” He crept along the lane next to her, protective, the traffic behind him protesting with horn blasts. “You look like the Wicked Witch of the West with that robe flapping behind you.”

  “Careful or I’ll send out the monkeys.” The bike wavered, the wheel skimming against the asphalt and a tuft of grass.

  “Pull over.”

  “I’m fine.”

  But when the bike slipped one last time and she nearly toppled into a light pole, Tenley banked into the parking lot.

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?” Jonas parked, then walked around the truck toward her, motioning to her robe. “If this got tangled up in the chain or spokes . . . Is something wrong? Is your mom okay?”

  “Is something wrong? Ha! Yes, everything is wrong. Blanche is fine. A little sick. Sleeping.”

  “Everything can’t be wrong. It’s physically, spiritually, and cosmologically impossible.”

  “Great, a literalist.” She whirled away from him, pacing in a small circle, her slippers skipping against the pavement. “Well, I’m a novelist and we live in hyperbole.”

  “Good to know.” He leaned against his truck, arms folded, watching her through narrow eye slits. The strength of his arms pumped against his blue-green T-shirt.