A Splendid Ruin: A Novel

by Megan Chance

  It was obvious that, as Goldie had warned me, my aunt had no recollection of coming to my room last night. But Goldie had made her out to be half-mad as well, and I saw no evidence of that. I was so relieved that I burst out, “I’m so very glad to meet you at last, Aunt Florence,” and hugged her. She was stiff at first, but then she put her arms around me.

  When I stepped back, there were tears in her eyes. She retrieved her handkerchief and blotted them away. “Where’s Goldie?”

  “She went to her room. I can fetch her—”

  “No, no. Please.” She gave me again that shaky smile. “Let’s not disturb her. I’d like to get to know you. Just the two of us. Will you take tea with me, my dear May?”

  “I would like that.”

  She led me down the hall, to the left, to the right again, until we were in the empty hallway I’d stumbled upon last night. The furnished room was indeed her sitting room; why was it located here, in a nearly empty wing? Once again, I was greeted by a cloud of patchouli and the jeweled eyes of the menagerie parading across the mantel. Last night’s shadows became a casual clutter in the electric light. There was no hint today of the oppressiveness I’d felt here.

  When Aunt Florence gestured for me to sit, I did so eagerly. There was already a pot of tea, along with a tray of delicate sandwiches, and another of cakes. It looked delicious, but they’d fed us a light meal at the Emporium, and Goldie’s distress had stolen any incipient hunger.

  The Palace Bar intruded, Mrs. Dennehy leaning over Uncle Jonny’s arm. Goldie saying, “She doesn’t know . . . And she won’t.” Uncomfortably, I pushed it all away.

  My aunt took the chair across. “Would you mind pouring? My hands are a bit trembly this afternoon.”

  In fact, all of her seemed trembly. She was a mass of fluttering sighs and rolling ankles and hands that could not settle, and she kept glancing toward the closed door as if she expected an interruption. Aunt Florence seemed uncomfortable in her own skin.

  I smiled reassuringly and poured the tea. My aunt waved away sugar and cream. I took mine black as well, but when I sipped it, it was cold and bitter as if it had sat there, forgotten and steeping, for hours. Again, I remembered last night, Goldie’s hint about madness. How long had Aunt Florence been waiting here for our return?

  My aunt blew into her cup to cool what was not the least bit warm, sipped it, and then blew into it again. She said nothing, only smiled vaguely and drank her tea as if unaware of the expectant silence between us. My questions crowded, but I was troubled by the cold tea and whatever it implied, and I looked about the room, trying to think about how best to bring up my mother. The clutter suggested a restless mind: unfinished needlework, a half-crocheted doily, a flower press with discolored, forgotten blooms scattered about it.

  Then I saw the candy jar on the table, partially hidden among a mess of embroidery threads, and for a moment I was transported back in time, my tantrum and a jar just like this one tumbling from the table to smash against the floor, scattering into pieces that could not be put back together. The shards of thick glass glimmering in the lamplight.

  This one was not broken, of course. It too was shaped like the famous Liberty Bell, a souvenir of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. I saw the molded crack, the lettering I knew by heart, by feel. PROCLAIM LIBERTY THROUGHOUT ALL THE LAND, and 1776 Centennial Exposition 1876. How often I’d run my fingers over that lettering, imagining the candy it had once held. “Chocolate dragées. Delicious! Though I only had one or two.” My question, “What happened to the rest?” And the thoughtfulness on Mama’s face, her quiet, “I gave them to someone to keep them safe—I didn’t want to eat all of them at once, you see, I wanted to savor them. But then they were gone.”

  It had seemed a tragedy to me. “What do you mean, ‘they were gone’?”

  “She ate them . . . I gave them to someone . . .” To her sister? Here it was, the opening I’d been searching for. “That candy jar. It’s from the Centennial Exposition, isn’t it? My mother had one too.”

  “We each had one,” my aunt said.

  “It came filled with candy,” I prompted.

  “Did it?” Aunt Florence sipped her tea, tilting her head as if searching for the memory. Then, “Ah yes. I remember now. Charlotte didn’t like them and she gave hers to me and then cried when I ate them as well. Can you imagine? She only wanted them after I ate them all. She raised such a terrible fuss that Mother sent me to bed without dinner. I was so angry with her—you know, you don’t look as I imagined, but you have the Kimble mouth.”

  Her words bounced like a ball among jacks, hitting here and there, scattering. It was not the story I knew. I tried to follow, but was too distracted by the rest. The Kimble mouth?

  “I’ve thought that perhaps I look like my father—”

  “Your father?” Her frown involved her entire face, forehead to chin. “Oh no, no.”

  “No? You know what he looked like. You know who he—”

  “I hardly remember him. He was one of her passing fancies.”

  I went quiet in surprise. Whatever I’d expected, this was not it. This was also not my mother’s story. Then again, had she told me how she and my father had met, or how long they’d been together? No, never. He could have been a passing fancy, but I had assumed he’d been her great love. She’d never married. She’d never even talked about another man. This confused everything. I scrambled to think; before I could say anything, Aunt Florence said, “People used to mistake us for twins now and again. Charlotte and I were so close.”

  Another distraction. So close. Yet not close enough that either had mentioned the other to her family—even to the point that my mother had not included her sister in her story of the Exposition. My mind could not keep straight. I thought it best to follow my aunt’s. Softly I said, “What happened between the two of you, Aunt Florence?”

  Her gaze lit on me with startling intensity. “I have missed my sister. It is good to have her child by my side. Now that you are here we must have tea together often. At least once a week. We simply must.”

  It was, of course, what I wanted. A chance to set things straight, to discover the truth. But I was frustrated, too, at the many turns of the conversation. “I’d be happy to do that, Aunt.”

  “You can trust me, I promise.”

  “Yes of course.”

  “I won’t disappoint my sister.”

  Such fraught words. I didn’t understand them at all. But again, I thought there would be time to work it all out. I thought there would be other teas, and so when came the perfunctory knock on the door, I bit back impatience and frustration and let my questions fall away as the maid entered. Shin, once more. At the time, I didn’t know enough of maids to find it odd that she served all three of us: Goldie, me, and my aunt. “You rang for me, ma’am?”

  Aunt Florence frowned. “Did I? I don’t remember that.”

  “It’s time for your medicine, ma’am.” Shin took a bottle from her pocket. “In your tea will be best.”

  Aunt Florence drew her teacup close, folding her other hand over it. “No. I don’t want it. Not yet. I must speak to May.”

  “Now, ma’am, you know you must. The doctor says.”

  “The doctor.” Aunt Florence sounded uncertain. Her trembling increased.

  I turned to Shin. “Perhaps you could leave it with me, and I’ll make certain she takes it.”

  “It’s time now,” she insisted.

  “Oh, but . . .”

  “Come, ma’am.” Shin held out her hand. Again, my gaze was drawn to that awful missing finger. “Mr. Sullivan will know if you don’t.”

  Aunt Florence’s whole manner changed. “Of course. Thank you.” She was like a child as she handed over her cup and saucer. The maid measured out the medicine—laudanum, I assumed. I remembered Goldie had said Aunt Florence was taking it.

  She handed the cup back to my aunt and said kindly, “It will help you to feel better.”

  Obediently, Aunt
Florence drank. She closed her eyes briefly. I waited impatiently for Shin to go. Instead, she stepped back to wait by the mantel, a silent but obvious presence. The hairs on the back of my neck stirred. “She never really looks at you, or she looks too intently.”

  My aunt took another sip of tea. “Will you have a sandwich—or a cake, my dear? I can’t think why Cook made so much for just the two of us.”

  But had it been just for the two of us? She could not have known that Goldie would not be joining us, could she? Had she planned it that way? I took a sandwich to please her and had a bite. A very good egg salad.

  Aunt Florence drank more tea. Her hands steadied. A slow, dreamy smile curved her lips. “Nick will take you around San Francisco this afternoon, so you can see the city.”

  I glanced at the clock. The afternoon was gone; it was after six.

  “That’s very kind, but already . . . I mean to say . . . Goldie took me about today. We went shopping.”

  “Shopping?” A shadow crossed Aunt Florence’s eyes. “But I thought . . . Jonny said . . . Did Charlotte approve?”

  Perhaps it was the laudanum. Or perhaps the confusion Goldie had mentioned. I set the sandwich aside in concern and sympathy, and yes, disappointment too. Gently, I said, “She’s gone, Aunt.”

  “She’s left for Newport already?”

  As far as I knew, my mother had never set foot in Newport, where the rich of New York City took the summer. “No, Aunt Florence. Mama died two months ago, do you remember? I’ve come to stay with you now.”

  A confused frown. Then she licked her lips. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I remember. How was her . . . her . . . end? It was peaceful, I hope.”

  I had no idea of my mother’s last moments. Her heart had failed as she’d returned home after picking up piecework. She’d collapsed on the street and been attended to by passersby. The doctor had not been able to give me any answers. “I can only guess, Miss Kimble. Tell yourself it was quick, if it comforts you. It may have been. I cannot say it wasn’t.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was peaceful. Goldie says Mama wrote you a letter before—”

  “I do worry so for Charlotte. She has never been strong.”

  One more thing to disconcert, a version of my mother opposite to my experience. Mama had been immoveable, determined, unwavering in her convictions, the strongest of which was her belief in the virtue of others. I’d never thought myself inclined to such a belief, but then, we so seldom see ourselves clearly.

  “I have always been her support,” Aunt Florence went on, musing almost to herself. “She relies on me so. Sometimes it is quite wearying. Someone is taking care of her while you’re away, of course?” She blinked slowly, as if trying to keep her train of thought.

  I felt sorry for her, and sad. Sad also for myself as it became obvious I would get no answers to my questions today. Kindly, I said, “Yes.” It wasn’t untrue, really. Mama was in God’s hands now.

  “When do you return?”

  “I thought I might stay here for a time, if that pleases you.”

  Aunt Florence set her cup and saucer aside. There was no evidence of her nervousness from before. Now she was all languor and drowsiness. “This has been so pleasant, Charlotte. But I fear I really must lie down. Will you help me to my room? I am so very tired.”

  I helped her to her feet, and she sagged into me, trusting completely to my ministrations. Her soft eyes pierced with a longing and gratitude that discomfited, even after she’d closed them and rested her head on my shoulder.

  I was glad now that Shin had stayed. Together, we took Aunt Florence from the sitting room and into that forlorn hallway. She seemed in a dream as we brought her upstairs to her bedroom. Though it was July and still bright daylight, the curtains were drawn and the room lit only by a dim oil lamp that glimmered faintly on the gilt-framed pictures and sent shadows jumping over the blue velvet-brocaded wall. It was strangely still, as if the room were a held breath. She sank onto a chaise by the window with a sigh. Before I could step away, she grabbed my hand, squeezing tight. “We’ll have tea again. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  Shin put a crocheted blanket over her and said to me, “I will stay with her now, miss.”

  In the hall, I was startled out of my sadness and dismay by my own reflection in one of the many mirrors. How tired I looked, as drawn as my aunt. I glanced away, only to catch myself again in the mirror opposite, a double, a triple, endless and infinite May Kimbles . . .

  I frowned and looked more closely. There, something familiar. I erased my frown, smoothing my face into a semblance of what it had been before, a slight startle, raised eyebrows, and then, yes, there it was. I saw Aunt Florence where I’d never seen my mother, and it was not for lack of trying. My aunt said that I had the Kimble mouth, but Mama had never told me such a thing. I knew well the contours of my bones, my skin, every bump and flaw. I’d so often searched for something to tell me who I was, where I belonged. There had been times when I’d wondered if I was related to my mother at all.

  But now I saw what I had never seen before—a family resemblance. How funny, to find a part of myself three thousand miles from where I’d started.

  “I won’t disappoint my sister.” What a strange thing to say, especially given that Florence had dropped so completely from Mama’s life. Which of them had left the other first? Where had the Kimble sisters begun, and why had they so completely lost one another?

  The clues Aunt Florence had given me chased themselves. “He was one of her passing fancies . . . Charlotte and I were so close . . . She has never been strong . . .”

  What was the story? What had happened? How was I to discover it?

  A door opening sprang me from my thoughts. It was Goldie’s. “I thought I heard something. What are you doing?”

  “I just had tea with your mother.”

  Goldie’s surprise was almost comical. “You what?”

  “She was waiting downstairs. I told her I would fetch you, but she—”

  “What did she say?” Goldie motioned for me to come into her bedroom, blinding with white furniture, gold wallpaper twined with green vines and tiny white birds, white lamps thick with golden fringe. It was hard to breathe within the overpowering cloud of jasmine.

  “Tell me everything,” Goldie said.

  “She wants me to have tea with her once a week. I said I would.”

  “She said that?” Goldie frowned. “She’ll have forgotten that already.”

  “I imagine so. Shin came in to give her laudanum.”

  My cousin sighed. “Thank God. She is much better with it.”

  “Don’t you wonder what happened, Goldie?”

  “What happened to what?”

  “To our family. Aunt Florence just told me that she and my mother were close. Like twins, she said. And then she said . . . Well, she said something that didn’t sound like Mama at all—”

  “Exactly,” Goldie said. “You can’t believe her about anything, May. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “I did promise her we’d have tea again.”

  “She won’t remember, and, to be honest, I think you should ask me or Papa the next time she asks you to tea. We can tell you if it’s a good idea that day or not. You don’t want to make her worse.”

  I nodded. “No, of course not.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind, May, I really think I should have a nap.”

  A nap so late? That seemed odd, but perhaps that was Goldie’s habit. I went back to my room to wait for dinner. How different it was from that morning, when the fog had locked me inside so completely. Now the view was expansive, the city spreading below to the harbor, ships and steamers and tiny fishing boats with strangely shaped sails and brown hills ringing it all.

  I picked up my sketchbook. I began to draw, letting my pencil take me where it would, and the comfort and certainty of draperies and wall coverings made stories about candy jars and passing fancies and impressions that
made no sense to me fade, while the memories of my mother strengthened with every decoration I drew, the things I knew of her, the stories I had always trusted.

  No one called me to dinner, and I don’t know how much time passed. A few hours at least, because the sun had gone down when I heard the step in the hall; I was drawing in the twilight. Another footstep. I tensed, remembering my aunt’s sleepwalking, but this time there was no knock on my door. More quiet steps down the hall, and suddenly I was thinking of Aunt Florence as I’d left her, how Shin and I had nearly dragged her up the stairs. She should not be walking about alone.

  I put aside my sketch and cracked my door quietly, not wanting to disturb if it was nothing, and was surprised to see not my aunt, but Goldie. Goldie wearing a low-brimmed hat and a dark coat, moving quietly to the stairs. She’d said nothing about an entertainment tonight, and she wasn’t dressed for a party or a ball—where could she be going?

  I started to call out, then bit it back. How furtive she was. It was obvious she didn’t wish to be heard or seen.

  I waited until she disappeared down the stairs, and then I crept into the hall. I heard the soft tap of her boots on the tiles below, and then the quiet—oh-so-quiet—opening of the front door.

  Leave it alone, I told myself. Ask her about it tomorrow.

  I went back to my room. I sat again on the chaise and picked up my sketchbook, but now my curiosity was such that I could not distract myself by drawing. Instead, I sat listening so hard to the evening that the tiniest sound became amplified, and the strain of it made my head ache. I closed my eyes, and then the day ran over me like a train, images jumbling together—Chinatown and the wind blowing my hat from my head while the men watched and the Palace Hotel and Aunt Florence saying, “You can trust me,” and the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to gloomy gray fog, and the morning.

  When I tried my cousin’s door the next morning, it was locked, and there was no reply to my quiet knock, my whispered, “Goldie, are you awake?”

  She was probably asleep. She would make an appearance soon, and I was starving.

  I followed the smell of food to the dining room, which was empty but for Uncle Jonny, who was at a huge mahogany table that must seat twenty. He was again impeccably dressed, this time in a charcoal suit. A gold watch chain draped across his chest with such studied perfection I wondered if it were glued in place. He read the San Francisco Chronicle as he sipped coffee. Beyond him, a footman stood against a pale gray wall painted to look like stone. I stared at the horns protruding from his head until I realized that behind him was one of several animal skulls mounted on wooden plaques, horned animals all.