“Addie, what are all these people doing here?” Edith inquired as she stepped off the bottom stair and into a small crowd of people that Mrs. Sargent was busily ordering to various rooms of the house.
“They’re friends that I made in London,” Addie explained cheerfully. “Most of them are writers and artists, but there are a few scientific minds in the bunch, as well. There’s even a radical women’s suffragette poet amongst the mix.” Addie’s eyes shone brilliantly as she explained the new additions to their household. “Many of them were kicked out of their lodgings due to a large fire. They were left with the choice of dodgy accommodations in the East End or coming here to the fresh clean air of the Lake District. I thought, since we have this large, drafty house and all these rooms with no bodies to fill them, why not turn Blackwood Farm into an artist’s colony? We can provide comfortable lodgings at an affordable price. While they live in peace, we get the chance to expose ourselves to the latest ideas in literature, art, history, science, and philosophy. You’ve been wanting some intelligent conversation, after all. And, you’re a writer. I thought that having them here would be good for you in terms of experience, your work, and the expansion of one’s soul.”
Edith removed her glasses momentarily as she eyed Addie. The thought of complete strangers sleeping several feet away from her left her stomach hollow and sour. However, the prospect of meeting brilliant, new, and influential minds was thrilling and left her yearning for deep, attention-grabbing conversations held over a succulent, robust dinner.
“What about Mrs. Sargent? How is she going to be able to handle the influx of people?” Her lifelong, faithful housekeeper rushed past them suddenly, ordering a young, fawn-haired man to the downstairs bedroom that once held a retinue of chambermaids in her grandmother’s day. Edith watched the older woman move with a nimbleness that she’d never seen before. A sudden concern for Mrs. Sargent’s well-being struck her. The last thing Edith wanted was to overtax the dear woman with an overload of work.
“I already thought of that!” Addie explained happily. “I posted an advert in town for extra help. When they come for interviews, Mrs. Sargent can hire who she likes. That way no one’s toes get stepped on and we have plenty of staff to see to our needs.”
“I have to admit that I am not entirely comfortable with the idea of having so many strangers in my house,” Edith paused and placed her glasses back upon her nose. “But, the prospect of being able to discuss things with knowledgeable people has won out. How much are you charging them to stay?” Edith asked even though she didn’t pay keen attention to how her money was spent. Addie simply smiled without answering. Her reluctance to answer was why Addie had gotten away with spending over a thousand pounds in the last three months.
From a wardrobe of new clothes, to trips to London, down to the amethyst brooch that she bought for herself, Adelide Grey was determined to live as she believed she was meant to. Lavishly, in refinement, and with her name wagging on the tongue of every single person in the county. And if it meant living off Edith Blackwell’s ever-growing fortune, so be it.
Edith watched quietly as their guests moved past them, unaware that the lady of the house stood amongst them. At first, Edith was irritated and upset at not having a say in their coming but quickly any ill-will swiftly faded away as she remembered the prospects that were now at her fingertips.
“Hello, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” A tall, willowy blonde with sad eyes and a slightly hooked nose swept towards them with her hand stuck out to Edith in introduction. The towering woman was dressed head-to-toe in suffragette white and bore the kindest smile that Edith had ever seen. Mentally, Edith made a note to create a character after her.
“Edith Blackwell,” Edith introduced herself properly, clearly still mindful of Aunt Amelia’s years of lessons.
“Elspeth Ehlers, and that is my husband, Jonathan,” Elspeth pointed to the man standing in the doorway of the front parlor with a medium build and perfectly coiffed hair the color of autumn leaves. “We can’t thank you enough for allowing us to stay in your magnificent home.” Elspeth pumped Edith’s hand several times before relinquishing her grip. “Our building burned down, you see, and my father-in-law has refused to let us stay with him for the time being. He claims that no ‘uppity woman’ or his ‘embarrassment of a son’ would tarnish his name any further. We were on the verge of taking a flat in a dilapidated Whitechapel tenement building before we came here. I don’t know what would have happened to us if we hadn’t met Addie.” Edith listened as Elspeth described their troubles. Within seconds, Edith had a deep admiration for the well-spoken woman. Within the span of a quarter hour, Edith had found a kindred spirit in Elspeth, learning that they had many shared interests, as well as a shared birthday.
With Elspeth refusing to leave her side, Edith met with the rest of their guests. Most were forgettable and only there for a free bed and no bills. Even though Edith was far from being snobbish, she quickly gained a distaste for them. She saw them for what they were: people who took advantage of an opportunity without a second thought to the consequences.
Edith used her best public face as Elspeth introduced her to the remaining people sheltering under Blackwell Farm’s roof. By the end, Edith stood in the center of her hall, surrounded by a mixture of strangers and potential friends. There were several that she wanted gone and would tell Addie to have them sent away at the next available moment. Yet, there were many, ones like Elspeth and her husband, people who were dedicated to their passions and were determined to make a living out of them, that she wanted to remain. They were the ones that she wanted to stay. People who would enrich her world with ideas, philosophy, conversation, and knowledge, rather than offering the world nothing and leeching off of her fortune.
Once Elspeth and Jonathan were securely tucked into the room next to Edith’s, Elspeth met Edith for tea in the garden, overlooking Edith’s pond. Under the shade of an ancient oak tree, a steaming pot of oolong, along with a series of cakes and pastries were served on a wrought iron table with matching chairs. Edith and Elspeth, who insisted on being called Ellie, spent hours discussing their shared interests, their families and personal histories, and most importantly, the women’s right to vote. Elspeth was the type of instant friend that Edith had sought for in Addie but hadn’t found. While Addie was flitting around, laughing and flirting with the male guests, Edith gained a confidant that would become a fundamental part of her life.
That night at dinner, Edith and Elspeth chatted away while Addie entertained the remaining guests. Edith found herself delighting in a literary discourse, ranging from British history to the current Suffragist climate. Just as dessert was served, Elspeth suggested that Edith start writing for Votes for Women, a brand-new suffragist paper that was edited by Elspeth’s friend, Emmeline Pethick- Lawrence and her husband, Frederick. Edith jumped at the chance to speak about her ever-growing passion for women’s equality. Within weeks, Edith was pumping out pieces that Elspeth hand delivered to London.
Once they were in print, Elspeth carried copies home for Edith to read. For the first time in her life, Edith hadn’t sought comfort in silence. Instead, she channeled her depressive tendencies into words—words targeted at how unfair history, mankind, and society had been to women. Edith waxed about how women were paid significantly less and were often subjected to long, cruel hours. She wrote of the grotesqueness of inequality and how men owed it to their female counterparts to stand alongside them after centuries of oppressing them. One of her articles featured a courtesan that Edith had met through Elspeth, named Evangeline Harper. Evangeline, or Evie as she preferred to be called, was a former East end ‘working girl’ who’d used her brains, her wiles, and had suffered atrocious abuse in order to become a self-made woman of the world. A woman who, like herself, wholeheartedly believed that women should be the rulers of their individual destinies and owners of their own property.
For over a year, Blackwell House was alive with conversation a
nd ideas. At any given moment, music played, debates took place, lectures on any given topic, or someone reading excerpts from great literature. Under the careful eye of Mr. Brown, Edith’s groundskeeper, the botanists transformed her simple, lackluster garden into multi-colored showplaces that mirrored parts of the globe. Edith often described it as being ‘Heaven on Earth”.
Blackwell Farm was full of life again. It housed and nurtured a diverse, eclectic group of people who Edith came to regard as family. Despite her shyness, Edith always seemed to be at its center. Someone was always knocking on her door, seeking an opinion on a piece of writing, or asking for an ear to give an opinion on a newly composed piece of music. Through it all, Edith realized that she finally had the family that she’d always craved. What she didn’t realize was that all the attention had ignited a flame of jealousy within Addie. A jealousy that everyone except Edith could see.
************
It was 1907 and Blackwood Farm bustled with life. Edith was nearing twenty-three and the interest in her work had grown exponentially, surpassing her meager expectations. Many people—fellow writers, artists, sculptors, botanists, philosophers, and more—moved in and out, all grateful for the experience to work within the peace and supportive environment of Blackwood Farm. During that time, Edith had tried many times to write her next novel but each time she’d reach a critical point, she’d get disgusted or would change the storyline, forcing herself to start again from scratch. The problem, she often complained, was that the story wasn’t reflective of herself, or her thoughts and feelings. For the first time, Edith faced the punishing cruelty of writer’s block. Her novels, articles, op-eds also seemed empty, unrealized, and dull. Despite the interruption in creative flow, she kept working.
************
While Edith scribbled away, Addie gradually assumed more the control over the house. With Edith’s permission, she’d redecorated the entire downstairs, save for the kitchen. Mrs. Sargent threatened to burn it down if Addie dared to move one pot or change out one piece of china. Leaving the kitchen alone, Addie updated the salon, the sitting room, the parlor, the dining room, and entry hall to her modern taste and standards. When people entered for the first time, they oohed and ahhed over the elegant, Edwardian style. Addie had turned Blackwell Farm into a show place but to Edith, it still felt like a mausoleum.
“What are you working on, dearest?” Addie inquired as she entered the salon where Edith sat scribbling away, writing a note to Mr. Wagner.
It had been months since his last visit and Edith hoped that it would be months before they saw him again. He’d shown up several times since Addie came to live with her. His arrival was always announced via a preceding letter, allowing Addie ample time to be away when he did show up.
With each visit, Randall intimated at Addie’s influence and warned Edith that her ‘benevolence’ would drain her fortune. Edith knew that such a thing was grossly untrue. She’d taken to writing her banker directly who, in turn, confirmed that Edith had enough money to last several lifetimes, even if she lived lavishly. On his last visit, Randall showed up unannounced and immediately got into a row with Addie, accusing her of extravagance with Edith’s money and manipulating her so-called best friend. The memory of the exchange still left a sour taste in her mouth. To make matters worse, after being asked to leave, Wagner sent a letter that laid out what he claimed were details that confirmed Addie to be a gold-digger, a liar, and that she was jealous of Edith’s good fortune. A letter that Edith promptly burned in the fireplace and never mentioned to her poor, ill-fated friend. Unfortunately, Edith was caught in the middle. In the end, Edith had had to make drastic changes for the sake of her own sanity. Edith replied adamantly that she would not tolerate gossip, and as long as Edith harbored Addie in her home, her nerves couldn’t handle any kind of fighting. Reluctantly, Wagner agreed but his most recent letter hinted at change. He’d agreed to be civil and respectful to Addie, as long as she could offer the same. Edith’s reply offered him the chance to put that promise into action.
“Nothing of note,” Edith answered Addie without further explanation.
“Are you writing another novel?” Addie said excitedly.
“Yes, but that’s not what I am working on at present,” Edith clarified without looking up, missing Addie’s scowl at Edith’s refusal to provide any more details.
“You should base your main character after me! I’d be such a great choice, don’t you think?” Addie bragged.
“Addie, I’ve already told you that I don’t base characters off of friends,” Edith replied for what seemed like the twentieth time. Her attention remained focused upon her letter, leaving her blind to the slight pout that hung heavy across Addie’s features.
“Any way, I’m thinking that we need to do the upstairs, Edith, darling. As you know, the wallpaper is starting to peel, and the woodwork is in bad need of oil.”
“What’s that, Addie?” Edith asked as she reread the last line of Wagner’s explanation of the progress of her stock profile.
“I was thinking that we need to redo the upstairs hall to match the downstairs,” Addie repeated as she flopped down upon an over-stuffed red velvet couch and stretched out. “It just doesn’t look proper that the lower half is so elegant and refined while the upstairs is so shabby and dreary.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Edith said absently, half-listening to Addie’s newest desire. “You have excellent taste and did such a fantastic job with the ground floor. I’ll see to it that the funds are made available.”
“Thank you, Edith, dear. Can you add a little extra just in case I have to travel to London to choose furnishings? Oh, and did I tell you that we have two new people joining us this morning?”
“No, you didn’t,” Edith said and resumed writing. “What time do they arrive?”
“They got here early this morning, just as the sun was coming up. I think they caught the earliest train. One aspires to be a poet. He’s an amiable sort but dull. The other is an American painter! He’s so handsome with such elegant hands and has the most stunning brown eyes. I think he might have a little crush on me, too. I think that’s why they arrived so early!” Addie added with a vibrant squeal.
“An American, you say?” Edith stopped mid pen stroke to focus on what Addie had said. “That should be interesting at dinner. It’s not often that we get the Yankee perspective here,” Edith added, intrigued by the prospect of a difference in viewpoint.
“I’ll see if I can find time to introduce you before dinner, hat is if he’s not occupied with talking to me!” Addie stated as she fished for flattery. Seeing it, Edith paid it no mind and went back to her task. Realizing that Edith was no longer interested in talking, Addie exited the room, leaving Edith alone once again.
************
An hour later, Edith found herself outside. Autumn was beginning and the desire to be amongst of the riot of color was too irresistible to deny.
Exiting the house through the kitchens, Edith strolled leisurely through the back garden, taking the time to appreciate the last of the summer roses, the fragrant rosemary, honeysuckle, cornflowers, forget-me-nots, kingcups, and the knee-high lavender that sprouted up in random patches. Edith first stopped at her pond where she skipped a few stones and whispered a few secrets to the water. With a contented sigh, she left the water’s edge and followed the path, headed to the lake front that stretched out before Blackwood Farm.
Just before she reached the gate, Arthur Price, the dark-haired painter, a man who was the physical embodiment of Adonis with an obsession for ancient Greek history, passed by, arm-in-arm with a young, handsome amber-eyed youth newly arrived from the island of Mikonos. The young man, a philosophy student who had recently sat for Price’s last effort, the Spartan admiral, Lysander, spent many afternoons debating philosophy with Edith over endless pots of linden flower tea that he’d gifted to her. With a brief smile and courteous wave, Edith continued on the path until she reached her destination.
“Oh, excuse me,” she apologized, nearly colliding with a painter standing before a canvas. “I was trying to walk around you but tripped on that rock just there.” She pointed at the offending stone that stuck up through the dying blades of grass.
“Think nothing of it. I wasn’t hurt. Are you all right, miss?”” the man replied in a crisp, elegant accent that betrayed hints of a Bostonian heritage.
“I’m fine,” Edith straightened her skirts before meeting his eye. It took a second for it to dawn on her who stood before her. “You’re the American that arrived this morning!” Edith added excitedly but quickly swallowed her enthusiasm down. On any given day, she was never this excitable. Yet, something about being in this moment put her in high spirits. The painter laughed softly and cast her an amused glance.
“News travels fast,” he chuckled. “Yes, I’m the American.” He set his palette and brush down and wiped his hand free of paint. “Edward Martin Murray.” He extended his hand in introduction.
“Edith Blackwell,” she replied nervously as she returned the greeting. A bolt of electricity coursed through her, sending frissons up her arm, shooting out across every inch of her flesh. In an uncharacteristic and bold move, Edith lifted her eyes once more to meet his and found their warm, amber-colored depths comfortable and inviting. Addie was right. His eyes were stunning.
The Secrets of Water Page 16
