A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Nor do we,” Mr. Tandy was forced to say sternly. “Mrs. Broome, please do not threaten our client.”

  Maggie jumped to her feet, swishing and rattling. “This girl’ll regret this day, and I don’t say such things without knowing ‘em!”

  Before any of them could answer her she uttered a really blasting obscenity and trotted to the door, opened it, and slammed it behind her.

  “Can she really injure me?” Caroline asked her cousin much later. “There’s no doubt she’ll try,” Timothy said. “But you must not let that worry you too much. The old boys in the office have their connections, too, and some of the connections are a great deal more formidable than old Maggie’s. Not that they do raw blackmail and bribery. Oh no. That would be barbarous. Gentlemen are above such things.” And he smiled his slight, cold smile.

  “They could not prevent the government from seizing my father’s property,” said Caroline, freshly enraged.

  “They didn’t manage that part of your father’s estate,” said Timothy. “Besides, dear Caroline, you must know that your father was engaged in something very illegal, and Tandy, Harkness and Swift won’t touch that sort of thing. But they could have advised you; they could, I think, have told you of the nice gold stream that went from your father to the men in Washington. Then you could have kept it up.”

  “No,” said Caroline. “I would not. No, not under any circumstances. Timothy, do you think there is any possibility of demanding some financial consideration from — Washington?”

  “No,” said Timothy. “You see, there is an investigation under way of people like your father. I’ll be frank about it. There are periodic investigations. A few of them are begun by really honest tyros in Washington, newly elected, who are out to save the country, and so on. But the majority are begun by men who want larger shares of the loot. If the loot doesn’t come to them fast enough they instigate investigations or they allow those already begun to proceed.”

  Caroline and her cousin were having dinner in the dining room of the Gentlewoman’s Pension, and Timothy, who had accepted Caroline’s awkward invitation, thought the food and the general surroundings completely deplorable.

  “You can be sure, however,” said Timothy, looking with suspicion at the sliver of dried halibut on his plate and the wilted slice of lemon, “that my dear employers won’t let anything happen to the rest of the estate.”

  He glanced abstractedly around the dining room, which was beginning to fill with elderly fat or thin women tottering to their stark white tables, A hot dun-colored light seeped into the room through small windows hung with chintz in shades of sickly dark green and pale purple which fought feebly with the wallpaper of dull cabbage roses and viciously blue leaves. The Brussels carpeting was crimson and exhaled a dry if clean smell. Every table was centered with a glass bud vase filled with a single wax rosebud. An excellent place for a vacillating suicide to make up his mind finally, thought Timothy. But he could not be depressed.

  He could not understand it; he could not fully accept it. He felt a unique emotion as he looked at the big young woman opposite him, with her sad face and sullen eyes and tight coronet of braids. This emotion was very close to profound gratitude; he had never been grateful to anyone before, and the sensation confused him a little. Cautious, as always, he continued to wonder why she had done this for him. He could not ask her directly. Then he had another thought and he put down his knife and fork and considered it with much agitation and disgust. Was she hoping to marry him? Good God! But why else?

  “Don’t you like the halibut, Timothy?” asked Caroline, startled by his expression.

  He reflected for a few moments. Yes, that was it; she wanted to marry him. Dear Mama, in some way, had suggested this to her. The tip of his tongue touched his lips. No marriage, and all this unbelievable good fortune would drift from his fingers and he would again be a mere junior law partner of those old pious dogs, Tandy, Harkness and Swift.

  “Would you prefer the stew?” asked Caroline, who had never before cared what anyone else ate. Moreover, what did it matter? “It isn’t like your mother’s table,” she added, and the sullen eyes darkened.

  Timothy watched her. “No,” he said warily. He carefully moistened his mouth again. “Mama has her own tastes. Have you dined with her recently?”

  He was immediately interested to see that she colored deeply. Then he was certain that she intended to marry him; she had been talking to dear pretty Mama, whose neck he lusted to wring immediately.

  “No,” said Caroline, so loudly and so harshly that several old ladies glanced at her with disapproval. She became aware of this and dropped her head, and her big, well-shaped hands clenched on the table. Then she said in a lower voice, “You must really know, Timothy, that your mother and I were never — never — ”

  “Fond of each other,” said Timothy.

  Caroline shook her head. She looked at Timothy, as if pleading for his forgiveness. “Forgive me, but I never liked your mother. You mustn’t ask me why, please.”

  She picked up a slice of bread, regarded it blindly, put it down again. “Please don’t be offended, Timothy, but I can’t ever again visit your mother. It has nothing to do with you.”

  What a mystery, thought Timothy with a little contempt for this fumbling girl, but now with some hope. Mama certainly was gay and frivolous; she was also charming. She had charmed everyone all her life except her son and her niece. So marriage was Caroline’s own idea. Timothy drank a little tepid coffee and wondered with a not inconsiderable despair how he was going to reject any offer so that it would not injure him and cause Caroline to change her mind.

  “I wonder,” said Caroline, stammering a little, “how your mother will accept the offer I made to you, Timothy.”

  Timothy lifted his eyes quickly. He waited. Caroline played with the silver beside her plate. “I hope,” she murmured, “that your mother won’t be too — annoyed. I’ve known almost all my life that she disliked you. I hope that her — annoyance — won’t be too hard for you to bear, Timothy.”

  So that was it! Caroline had made him this offer, not because of his indubitable talents and his intelligence, but because she hated his mother and believed that her son’s sudden good fortune would enrage and frustrate Cynthia! What a crippled mind the girl has! thought Timothy. He smiled involuntarily. (Of course this raised another problem. Caroline must continue to believe that Cynthia would be disconcerted. He, Timothy, only hoped that his mother would have the good sense not to write Caroline a grateful letter when she received the news. He began to frame a cautioning letter to his mother in his mind; she was subtle; she would understand.)

  “Will it be too hard, Timothy?” asked Caroline, wondering at his silence.

  “What?” Timothy brought his attention back to her. “Oh, my mother. Well, Caroline dear, you know that Mama and I never have been congenial.”

  Caroline smiled; it was not a pleasant or beautifying smile, and, seeing it, Timothy knew he had been right. His elation returned. He quite impulsively reached for her hand and briefly pressed it. “You’re very kind, Caroline,” he said.

  Was she absolutely out of her mind, the poor thing? Timothy asked himself. Had she so little sophistication at her mature age, and after all that travel and all the complex personalities she must have met? She was not ignorant; she was not stupid; she was not without some perception. But she knew nothing, after all, of humanity. She was like a withered nut — meat in its fossilized shell. Thanks, of course, to lovely Uncle John.

  He let himself meditate on the reason for Caroline’s hatred for Cynthia. He was perfectly sure that Caroline was too virginal, too innocent, to have guessed at the relationship between her father and aunt. Like all malicious people, he was intensely curious. The reason for Caroline’s hatred engrossed him, stimulated him. He wanted to know.

  But before he could speak Caroline said, “How terrible it must be for you, Timothy, to have a mother who dislikes you so and who would resent any go
od fortune coming to you. It must have made all your life so barren. You see,” she added, “my father loved me. I have that to remember, that he loved me.”

  Good God, thought Timothy with contempt. Can she really be that idiotic? He sighed. “Yes, dear Caroline,” he said gently, “you, at least, have some consolation.”

  “Yes,” agreed Caroline.

  Timothy delicately wiped his damp face. Caroline thought he did this to conceal his emotions properly. “I ought not to have said that to you,” she said. “It must be painful.” The dull black of her dress moved as she sighed. Timothy had a wild urge to laugh. “Would you mind changing the subject, dear Caroline?” he said in a subdued voice.

  “Of course, of course!” she cried, and she smiled, and as so many others were affected, so was Timothy by the sudden beauty and shyness of that smile. He had never seen it before. It had such radiance; it was like quick and brilliant sunshine on a carved face of dark granite. He had not known she had such beautiful teeth. If only she knew about that smile, he thought with considerable astonishment, she’d practice it regularly just as other women would, and with amazing effect. He was a little taken aback. What if some other man were ever treated to that smile? With the fortune, Caroline would then become irresistible, and what of all that damned money then? It would pass to strangers instead of, rightfully, to Caroline’s blood kin. He was terribly disturbed. Marriage, for Caroline, had been taken for granted by him as an impossible contingency.

  Caroline said, with the radiance of the smile still lingering at the corners of her mouth and eyes, “There are so many things I want to discuss with you, Timothy, for I will be leaving tomorrow morning. You see, I am not retaining Papa’s offices in New York any longer. Tandy, Harkness and Swift will dispose of all Papa’s enterprises here for me and will put the money into trusts and investments and liquid assets. You will, of course, help in these matters. I intend to concentrate on investments; Papa taught me thoroughly about them. He knew I wouldn’t care about the business enterprises, which are too much for me to supervise. But I do intend to keep the Boston office, which deals with the financing of local New England enterprises, such as textiles and shoes and fishing, and the collection of rent from property in Boston. Papa has a staff of seven men there in that office. I hope, Timothy,” she said with a return of her usual shyness, “that you will help me occasionally in Boston.”

  “Indeed! How kind of you, Caroline,” said Timothy.

  “There will be a percentage for you,” said Caroline. “I hope it won’t all be too much for you, Timothy.”

  Timothy wanted to laugh again. He remained properly and seriously sober.

  “Before I left,” said Caroline with that touching simplicity which always amused Timothy and made him contemptuous, “I had a quiet talk with Mr. Tandy and Mr. Harkness and Mr. Swift. We all agreed that you could not, with your new responsibilities, be only a junior partner any longer. You will be a full partner.”

  Timothy was speechless. His moods were not vivid or quick; they moved slowly and inexorably and without passion. But now he actually wanted to get up and kiss Caroline with fervor.

  “They had the greatest confidence in you,” Caroline continued, beginning to eat her execrable rice pudding and unaware of the painful joy and ecstasy her cousin was feeling. “Mr. Tandy did remark that you were still only twenty-four, but I reminded him that I am going on twenty-four, too. Besides, you are my only male relative.” She paused. Her natural honesty then made her blurt out, “I wish I’d understood about you earlier, Timothy! I always thought you were — I was afraid of you, Timothy. Truly. I thought you were just like your mother! You see how stupid I was? I didn’t understand.”

  “I am not in the least like my mother,” said Timothy gently, thinking of Cynthia’s natural sympathy, kindness, joy in living, love for all that was beautiful and graceful, her foolish generosity and instant warmth. He shook his head and repeated, “I am not in the least like her, Caroline.”

  “And Melinda’s just like her,” said Caroline, and she was ugly again.

  Timothy was startled, seeing that abrupt change of expression and the naked hatred. He wanted to say, “You are wrong. Melinda is a love.” But his remarkable intuitiveness warned him that everything would be ruined if he said that. It was only too obvious that Caroline hated the young girl. This made him reflect again. Would Caroline destroy him when he married Melinda? Yes, she was capable of any recklessness, he now discerned, to satisfy her furious loathings.

  Caroline, blushing, was murmuring, “I am going to be married, Timothy.”

  “What!” he exclaimed. “What!” The old ladies muttering and complaining about him stared at him, aghast at his male vehemence in so genteel a setting.

  Caroline was blushing even more; worse, that damned beautiful smile was on her face again. Timothy pushed back his chair, and his pale eyes sparkled. “What are you talking about?” he demanded rudely. (All that money! In the hands of an unknown, accursed stranger!) “Who is he?” said Timothy, and he was so agitated and so incredulous that his usually smooth and controlled voice was rough with rage. “Some European fortune hunter?”

  Caroline was immediately reminded of Mr. Brookingham. “No, no,” she said hurriedly. (How kind Timothy was.) She added soothingly, “Dear Timothy, I’d never do that. I thought you understood that I am no longer interested in European affairs, except as they affect the stock market. I dislike Europe intensely, and Europeans. They frighten me. So knowing. So ruthless. Please don’t look so worried, Timothy. The man I am going to marry — I have known him since I was about ten years old.”

  A Bostonian! Timothy, a Bostonian himself, knew these Bostonians. Let the swine once get control of all that money, and he, Timothy, would be out in the cold.

  “Who?” said Timothy. (God damn the bastard! The sneaking, sly swine who had done this to him, probably laughing behind his back!)

  “You don’t know him,” said Caroline apologetically. (Dear Timothy, how concerned he was for her!) “But when you know him you will like him immensely.

  “Please don’t worry, dear Timothy. Tom is so good, so kind.”

  “Tom who?” he almost shouted. “Tom Adams, Tom Graves, Tom Winthrop, Tom Burnett?”

  “Tom Sheldon,” said Caroline, suddenly aware of the avid attention of the old widows and spinsters about her. “Please be calm, dear Timothy. You don’t know him. He lives in Lyme.”

  “In Lyme?” Timothy repeated, stupefied. No one lived in that wretched seaside village! Timothy began to sweat. “We don’t know anyone in Lyme, Caroline!”

  “I do. He builds houses, Timothy. His father was a handy man, and then he and Tom began to build little summer cottages and houses. You can see them all over.”

  Timothy was absolutely dumb. He could only stare at Caroline; a dull and sickening ache struck the back of his head. Then he muttered, “Sheldon? I don’t know any Sheldons.”

  “Of course you don’t, Timothy,” said Caroline. “You were only once in Lyme, if you remember, and it was only for a day, and you were about fourteen then. And Tom was about sixteen and helping his father, doing chores in the village.”

  I’m not really hearing this! Timothy thought. I’m going mad. He said faintly, “Doing chores in the village?” And then louder, “A handy man?”

  Caroline stopped smiling. She looked aside and frowned anxiously. The horror and disbelief in Tom’s voice had finally impressed themselves upon her. She remembered now her own thoughts about old Thomas Sheldon. She had thought this, she recalled very clearly; she had thought it even this morning on the train, and she had been full of anger against Beth.

  She looked furtively at her seething cousin; she had never seen Timothy so disturbed. His coolness was completely shattered.

  “You aren’t serious, Caroline! This is impossible!”

  She murmured, “I suppose it sounds so. I didn’t really understand how it would sound to you; I never thought of it. Do try to be patient with me, Timothy,
while I explain.” And in that uncertain stammering voice which she always used when disconcerted or ashamed or frightened, she told Timothy of Tom Sheldon. He listened intently, never moving his pale eyes from her face. There was no pity in him now, no gratitude, no exultation.

  When she was done, he passed his hand over his smooth light hair and then stared blankly at the table. What else could one expect, he asked himself, of the daughter of a wretched nobody, a tramp from nowhere, possessing no family, no background? One could expect precisely this, a comedy of vulgarity, of lewd barnyard scuffling and clutching, of a mating between a village dolt and a lumbering female fool. They would breed a horde of ugly, featureless brats who would inherit all that money. All that money!

  “Caroline, please listen to me.” He made himself smile at her like a brother, full of indulgence and patience. “I am now the only male relative you have; I have a responsibility for you. You are alone in the world; you are a female, still young and unprotected. But you are a traveled, educated woman. You are the heiress to one of America’s greatest fortunes.” He thought he would stifle in that hot room full of its odors of wax, peppermint, old bodies, and heated wool. A thin shaft of hot copper sunlight struck his arched fingers where they were pressed on the stiff linen of the tablecloth.