Relative Fortunes (A Julia Kydd Novel)

by Marlowe Benn

  The drive turned, ending any suggestion of a pleasant garden. The house stood ponderous and angular, stone blocks the size of iceboxes piled three stories high in regimental symmetry. The old estate sloped away toward the East River and its willow-clogged bank. A battalion of rosebushes, blooms faded to cankered hips, marched beside the two paved tracks that led to the white-columned porte cochere.

  She passed four parked motorcars. A driver’s head jerked upright as her steps sounded on the gravel beside his door. Calmed by her unfamiliar face, he resettled back into the upholstery, arms folded and cap tipped over his eyes. She proceeded up the five wide steps and rang the bell.

  A housemaid pulled open the heavy door carved with Celtic knot work, but before she could speak, Glennis bounded into view, her wide face suffused with the distress of a child whose nanny has strayed from sight. She pulled Julia across the hall, their shoes clattering on the waxed parquet, and into a small room that seemed to be some sort of butler’s pantry. She elbowed the door shut behind them. “Oh, Julia, they’re sweeping her away like yesterday’s rubbish. It’s ghastly. I’m the only one who even cares she’s dead.”

  Julia found the handkerchief tucked into Glennis’s sleeve and dabbed at her friend’s wet cheeks, careful to dislodge as little powder as possible. “People mourn in different ways, Glennis. There’s more to grief than tears, you know. I’m sure they care.” The platitudes rolled out in smooth succession. Though predictable and perhaps mistaken, they were what one said.

  Glennis frowned. “No, something’s peculiar. They won’t tell me what happened. Or even where they took her. I’m worried half to pieces, and they think I’m balmy.”

  “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, Glennis. She was probably ill without anyone realizing it. I’ve heard of cases like this, when someone seems fine until the very end. Maybe it was a blessing, a sign that she didn’t suffer much.” Julia cringed at her further descent into clichés, but what else could she say?

  Glennis gave a skeptical pout and patted at the back of her head. “Am I an awful fright?” Her hair was mussed, but otherwise she looked about as usual: plump, a little confused, and considerably younger than her twenty-five years. Julia shook her head not at all and gave Glennis’s cheeks a brisk rub with her thumb.

  “Come on, then. They’re waiting. They don’t know you’re coming, and they won’t like it, but so what?”

  Before Julia could consider this ominous news—was she about to intrude uninvited upon a private affair?—Glennis tugged her across the hall.

  The drawing room fell silent when they entered. Julia swallowed: her fear was confirmed. It was a very small, very private gathering, and she was not only unexpected but unwelcome. A handful of somber people eyed her from chairs pulled into a loose oval in the center of the room. There was no coffin, and there were none of the usual signs of mourning: no black buntings, no dark veils. A priest stood to one side, hands folded over a service book. In the awful quiet a middle-aged man with a horseshoe of graying hair stepped forward. His face seemed to not quite meet in the middle, leaving a flat stripe of bone between his eyes and a gap between two front teeth wide as spatulas. That and eyes the color of shallow water identified him as Glennis’s brother, Chester.

  “Everyone, this is my particular friend, Julia Kydd,” Glennis announced. “You all have each other, so I asked Julia to come. Because I need her.” Her nervous voice blared, and she clutched Julia’s arm against her ribs, as if she expected her guest to be wrestled out of the room. Julia had a sudden notion of how strikers and suffragists must feel when facing down policemen.

  Chester Rankin exchanged a long look with one of the seated women, a brunette with a stiff mass of marcelled hair, thin penciled brows, and shoulders so tense they raised faint welts in the black wool jersey of her dress. The woman considered Julia with red-rimmed eyes wide with disapproval at this blatant breach of decorum. Julia wanted nothing more than to apologize—she hadn’t realized!—and creep away, but Glennis’s grip and a fear of making things worse froze her in place. The woman seemed to reach the same conclusion: best to avoid a scene. She dropped her chin and folded her hands in her lap, signaling reluctant forbearance. Glennis gave Julia a gleeful hug before her brother gestured curtly for another chair to be positioned behind the circle. He motioned Julia toward it and steered Glennis to sit beside him.

  The service was brief and formal. As the priest intoned the sonorous language of the Book of Common Prayer, Glennis worked her handkerchief, but the only sound of weeping came from a gaunt, plain woman sitting, like Julia, apart from the others in a straight-backed chair. Two graying braids circled her head, and a strand of imitation pearls skimmed the collar of a brown wool dress at least five years out of date. Julia guessed she was the family’s old nanny, fetched from an obscure Brooklyn boardinghouse.

  The formal liturgy ended, and the priest closed his book. “Dr. Winterjay?”

  A younger man rose from beside Glennis’s sister Vivian with a sad smile that suggested he understood the ways of the world but loved it anyway. He looked to be a professional man of some sort, perhaps a promising scholar or judge, the kind of man whose easy manner and handsome face encouraged trust and caused young girls to giggle. Something about his earnest yet worldly smile also made Dr. Winterjay look, eerily, a bit like Julia’s beau back in London. David too could both admire and tease in the same glance, inviting one into the intimate game that was modern gallantry.

  “Ahhh.” Winterjay expelled a long and meaningful syllable. “Naomi.” His wife’s pale-blue eyes—clearly the family’s distinguishing feature—filled with tears at the sound of her sister’s name. “Naomi was not an easy sister to love.”

  Julia blinked but kept her head still. Had he misspoken? Surely the not was a slip. She sneaked a glance at Mrs. Winterjay, expecting to see her eyes widen in a wifely signal of the gaffe. But she merely gazed at her husband with a leaden expression.

  “Naomi was—” Again he paused. “Naomi was a difficult woman. She chose a life of turbulence and discord, and we have all been buffeted by the powerful storms into which she sailed. We have all suffered on her behalf, sensitive to the stings and humiliations which Naomi herself scorned. None of us was spared the acid of her tongue or the harsh judgments she delivered upon those she found wanting.”

  Julia fought to keep from squirming at this litany of misdeeds, hardly the usual talk of funerals. Was anything too awful not to be forgiven, or at least overlooked, on such occasions? Even the worst villain’s faults could be veiled in euphemism and blandishments. She hazarded another furtive survey of the room, baffled by the docile quiet of the other listeners. Why were there no coughs, no jiggling feet, no whitened knuckles of suppressed alarm? Every face was lowered, every jaw rigid. Each man sat with arms tightly folded. Clearly this harsh assessment came as no surprise, but was it shared or merely endured?

  What on earth had Naomi Rankin done to warrant such reproof? She must have been difficult indeed. But why then was Glennis so determined to lament her? The set of Glennis’s shoulders, as round and rigid as last week’s bread, gave no answer.

  Winterjay went on, settling into the confident cadence and timbre of a high-church cleric. “And yet Naomi was also a child of God, whether she liked it or not. We must pray for her soul, not with less charity because of the pain she caused, but with more. We must remember what made Naomi in many ways a remarkable woman. She fought for what she believed would make our nation better. She railed against injustice as she perceived it. We may not share her convictions, but we must honor her zeal.” He beseeched mercy for her troubled soul and prayed finally that she be delivered into her savior’s merciful hands. The mourners added a ragged echo of amens, some sharp as kicks, a few measured and moist.

  No sooner had the last sound died away than Chester stood and clapped Winterjay’s shoulder. “Right. Now we leave her to the Lord.”

  As others also rose and reached for embraces, Julia turned to slip away
without further embarrassment, but Glennis hurried over and gripped her elbow. “You have to stay. I won’t let them make you go. Something’s muzzy here, and I don’t like it. You’re clever; maybe you can understand what he’s up to.”

  She was speaking in riddles again. Whoever he was, up to something muzzy or not, this was not the time to discuss it. Julia wanted nothing more than to leave the Rankins to their own peculiar and distasteful way of mourning. But before she could think of a civil way to extract herself without triggering more loud entreaties, Glennis whispered, “And look. Over there. It’s Russell. Russell Coates. Our lawyer.”

  The elusive Russell: one of Glennis’s quarries, the object of the fruitless search that had ended so abruptly Friday evening. He seemed unremarkable from across the room: well-dressed, thinnish lips, short-cropped wiry brown hair graying at the ears. His outstretched arm tracked the spines of leather-bound octavos shelved beside the fireplace. Julia itched to peer over his shoulder. Her favorite sport on earth was scanning another’s library, for editions as much as titles. She knew Coates was a collector from the way his hand slid over the corded backs: light, sensuous. Yet it moved without discernment, drifting from habit more than pleasure. He looked lost in brooding thoughts far from the morocco beneath his fingers. Julia knew that trick. She’d used it herself many times to avoid unwelcome small talk. Beautiful books could be like nursing infants, handy for ensuring solitude: on glimpsing a bibliophile in commune with a book, most people smiled and tiptoed the other way.

  “That’s Nolda, Chester’s horrid wife,” Glennis went on, “and the old man is Dr. Perry. He used to be our family doctor. Nice and all, but shaky on his sticks, if you know what I mean.” She referred to the tense brunette and an elderly man who, despite a tic that puckered the corner of his left eye, beamed about the room at no one in particular.

  “And that’s Miss Clintock.” Glennis nodded at the woman Julia judged to be the retired nanny. “She’s Naomi’s companion, I suppose you’d say. They worked together and shared the apartment downstairs, though—”

  “See here, Glennis,” Chester said, interrupting her hasty survey.

  Nolda Rankin joined her husband and finished his sentence, her tone just skirting rudeness. “It’s time to discuss family matters. In private. I’m sure your friend will understand.”

  Julia did understand. More than that, she preferred to be well clear of an occasion not only private but evidently rancorous. Happy families attracted visitors; warring ones repelled them. She was about to excuse herself with a vivid apology when Glennis said, “No! You never tell me anything. You treat me like a baby. I deserve to have at least one friend here who knows what I’m going through.”

  “For pity’s sake,” Nolda said in a quiet hiss. “Pull yourself together. My ten-year-old has more self-control. This is no time to argue. Just do as your brother—”

  “I will not!” The petulant shout quieted the room. “You’re not my mother. I won’t let you make Julia leave.”

  Julia had a sudden memory of Glennis’s tantrum the morning she’d been told to clean the school lavatory basins, stained where she’d dumped a forbidden jar of beets. She’d bellowed defiance then too, to the head girl’s shock and (impotent) fury.

  The others abandoned the pretense of not watching. Julia lowered her chin but understood that no posture could save her from the embarrassment about to unfold. Why on earth was Glennis insisting she stay?

  “What about them?” Glennis swung her arm toward Dr. Perry, Russell Coates, and Miss Clintock. “You let them stay.”

  Vivian Winterjay broke the awful silence. “I suppose there’s no great harm in it, Chester,” she said gently from across the room, fingering a gold cross that hung from a chain at her throat. “Glennis is taking this very hard. I’m sure Miss Kydd can be trusted, Nolda. She’s Philip Kydd’s sister, you know. Her people are top drawer. She’ll understand the need for discretion.” Poised at her husband’s side and now free from the strain of the other evening’s curdled party, Vivian was clearly the beauty in the room, in a refined, candlelit sort of way.

  Chester and Nolda Rankin exchanged another exasperated look. “You must understand our situation, Miss Kydd,” Nolda said. “This family has had a great shock, and these are delicate matters. Extremely delicate and trying.”

  Julia would have sworn over her firstborn if it would have eased the awkwardness, but before any such assurance was required, Glennis flung a triumphant arm around her. “Yes!”

  Chester choked in irritation. “Then let’s get this over with. Everyone, sherry in here.” He crossed the room to push apart a pair of sliding doors. A maid jumped away from the dining table, cowering behind a fistful of cutlery. “Another place. Now!”

  She fled with a nervous bob.

  The old doctor exclaimed cheerfully about his failing joints as he labored to his feet. Glennis ran to join Russell Coates, nudging against his flank to be led into the dining room. Miss Clintock stepped back to let others pass. Trailing the procession, Julia resolved to ignore any future pleas from Glennis Rankin. Someday, she told herself, this might make an amusing tale. She craved a sidecar.

  The maid scurried to rearrange table settings and chairs. Nolda Rankin instructed her to add a place for Julia beside Miss Clintock at the farthest distance from herself and her husband. As soon as the last fork was laid, the mourners sat, and a platter of sherry glasses circled the table. Chester raised his glass. “Naomi,” he duly muttered. “Rest in peace.”

  Miss Clintock reached for her cloth, and Glennis sniffled, but the moment passed calmly.

  Chester watched the maid retreat to the kitchen. “We can’t talk during the meal,” he said, arcing his jaw toward the door, “but as soon as it’s over, we have serious business to discuss.”

  Everyone stared.

  “Oh yes. Naomi has managed to pull off one last little trick. Pardon my French, but it’s one holy hell of a mess.”

  The door swung open, and a silver soup tureen arrived.

  CHAPTER 4

  Whatever the Rankins served for luncheon that day, Julia did not taste it. She managed a few bites of each course during the interminable hour, but her thoughts alternated between how soon she might slink away and what Naomi could have done to provoke such an ominous pronouncement. Each time a course was served or dishes cleared and the service door settled shut, someone would beg Chester to explain, and each time the door swung open again as, palms flat across the starched linen, he silently refused.

  At last the custard dishes were removed and a decanter of port delivered. The maid retreated for the final time with explicit instructions not to interrupt for any reason whatsoever. Cheeks pink with curiosity, she nodded and was gone.

  “Please, Chester,” Vivian said the moment the door settled into place. “For heaven’s sake, what’s this about?”

  “Perry will explain.”

  Dr. Perry blinked and nodded. He unleashed a sticky cough that required a search for his handkerchief. “I’m afraid the situation is more complicated than we may have implied,” he said. “When I arrived late Friday evening after Chester telephoned, I found that Miss Rankin was, as he feared, clearly dead. The cause was plain to us both, unfortunately.” He massaged his eyes before resuming, each word slowed by lips stiff with age. “An empty tube of morphine tablets lay in her lap. A few could still be detected, partially dissolved but not swallowed, beneath her tongue and on her lower lip. Quite simply, I’m afraid the poor woman took her own life.”

  He dropped his chin, mouth pressed into a flat line of dismay, as if he considered her act a personal affront.

  No one spoke. Nolda turned a stony face toward her husband, who sat tapping his glass of port in a steady dirge. Vivian’s hand rose to the cross at her throat. Edward Winterjay bowed his head. Russell Coates cleared his throat behind a tight-gripped napkin. A low gurgle tracked Glennis’s slow comprehension of the news. Miss Clintock sat motionless.

  Suicide. No wonder the Ran
kins had resisted Julia’s presence. Suicide sharpened the sting of death, adding its own layer of torment to any bereavement. Most families would feel some guilty shame at its tacit message of failure, and a socially prominent family could face crushing judgment and scandal. Julia knew only one suicide, her sweet but haunted Gerald, whose horror at surviving when his trench mates did not proved more than he could bear. His family had worked strenuously to hide the truth from their friends and neighbors. Julia had hated their ruse, hated its antiseptic rinse of Gerald’s pain, but had been powerless to stop it. Although his death had been more than three years ago, the ache remained.

  “This is shocking news, unutterably sad,” Winterjay said. “And I fear there are dreadful ramifications. It means her immortal soul is in peril. Those who turn a violent hand upon themselves forfeit the sanctity of Christian committal. Our service may be void.”

  Silence. Was this why the priest had been so hastily dismissed?

  “Surely that’s the least of it,” Nolda said.

  “It also presents a more immediate problem,” Winterjay said. “Father Sterne no doubt expects a private burial at Saint Stephen’s tomorrow, in the Rankin plot. I, for one, have serious qualms about that now, and Father Sterne will definitely balk.”

  “Dear Lord,” Vivian said. She spread her hands across her abdomen, her gold hair falling forward to obscure her face.

  “Naomi wouldn’t care in the least what became of her remains,” Winterjay said. “But her parents would take the sacrilege very seriously. I doubt they could overlook the church’s strictures on the matter.”

  This time the silence lasted so long that sounds of the household drifted into the room: a chiming clock, irritable voices and clattering pans from the kitchen, a telephone bell quickly answered.