by Carey Corp
“I am afraid so, dearest.” Maimie bit her bottom lip in concern, watching her friend for signs of a relapse into melancholia. “I didn’t want you to hear it in the street. Was I right to tell you?” Wendy remained frozen for so long that Maimie opened her mouth to repeat the question.
“Yes,” Wendy said hastily, managing a wan smile before taking a long sip from her cup. “It helps me greatly to know he has moved on…as have I.”
Maimie narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. “Hmm.”
“Truly,” Wendy managed with more animation. To underscore the point, she helped herself to a biscuit.
She returned from her uneventful tea, to find James pacing in the garden. There was a nervous purpose in his movements, as the young banker silently presented her with a hand picked bouquet of flowers. Ignoring the questioning look on her face, he clasped her hand and led her to a nearby bench.
As soon as she sat, Wendy leapt back up. Unable to remain still, she took over pacing, her force and momentum driving her forward. She felt reckless—like a woman with nothing left to lose and quickly shut the thought down. Actually, she lied to herself, it would be a relief to consign myself to fate.
James watched her without speaking. She had no idea what was going on in his taciturn mind and doubted she ever would. They had no particular connection in that way. After all, he was not Peter. No. James was dull and boring, and patient and loyal. Peter, for all his passion, had been nothing but the source of unmitigated heartbreak. Peter had abandoned her for another county, another girl. In truth, he had never actually claimed Wendy for his own, but he had undoubtedly felt that same earth shattering connection as she. Hadn’t he?
Everything deflated in that moment, as Wendy acknowledged that Peter most likely existed in blissful ignorance of her affections toward him. She was nothing to him, save the import she had created in her own mind. Suddenly she felt chilled. Pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders, she slowly crossed the garden to sit next to James. “Perhaps,” she began dully, “we should stop hedging around the future and reach an agreement.”
Quietly James nodded. Then he dropped to his knee to ask the question that was a death sentence to her spirit.
The boy came to her again that night. From the open window, he beckoned her. “Wendy, Wendy,” he called, “When you are sleeping in your bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.” She liked the sound of that, flying with the boy, leaving her nightmares and troubles behind.
With growing excitement Wendy approached the window and the boy’s outstretched hand. But as she reached for him, the boy saw something on her face that caused him to gasp. Hastily he pulled his hand away as if too close to an open flame.
“Wendy,” he accused, “You’ve given my place to another! Soon someone will share your bed and I shan’t be able to see you anymore.”
“No,” she contradicted, “I haven’t replaced you. You may always return.”
But the boy clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut and bemoaned, “Nay, what have you done Wendy? What have you done?”
Lily certainly had her finer points, Peter reflected as he watched her work D.W. Griffith’s parlor. In addition to her consummate publicity skills, she was stunning to look at and good company, when she wasn’t playing at being coquettish.
He supposed there were worse things than being engaged to such a desirable woman. She might even make a decent wife—for someone—just not him. Not that he hadn’t tried to find some measure of feeling for her. He had dug deep within himself, but the most he could coax from the shriveled up organ that had once been his heart was sisterly affection.
Despite his lack of attachment, it was his tenuous honor that kept him from acting on Lily’s suggestion that they become more than friends toward one another. From his end, their engagement was a practical business arrangement, and despite her blatant offers to make it more, Peter could not take advantage.
Usually that was the end of that line of thought, but tonight, watching the ravishing Tiger Lily weave her magic spell on those around her, he was tempted to put his honor aside. Surely he had enough flaws in his character to accomplish what every other man in the room was clearly fantasizing about? She was, after all, his fiancée.
But where his honor might have failed him, the matter of her honor kept him steadfast. It was not right to treat a woman such—even if the woman asked for it.
With a reluctant sigh, Peter helped himself to another glass of D.W.’s finest scotch and retreated to the quiet sanctuary of his host’s well-stocked library. Without conscious thought, he selected a slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Absently fingering the exquisite binding, he seated himself opposite the roaring fire, deep in thought.
“Thinking on matters of the heart, lad?”
The deep resonate voice startled him, for he thought himself alone in his reverie. It did not surprise him that his host had sought out solitude as well. D.W. often stole away when in the grips of artistic contemplation.
Peter noted with irony the book he had selected at random. “Am I that transparent?”
“To most no, but to me…” D.W. smiled enigmatically, nodding at the book Peter held in his hands. His host raised his amber-filled tumbler in salute and took a hearty drink.
Peter respected the opinion of the director and head of Biograph films. He was an authoritative man, like a shrewd general, but also a forward-thinking visionary. Peter found himself curious of the good man’s opinion. “And just what is amiss, do you think?”
“Passion,” he replied without hesitation. “Not that you lack passion, my lad—you have it in spades for the camera. But in your real life, you and Lily do not mesh—no matter how hard she tries to force it.”
“Aye,” Peter agreed draining his own Scotch. “She does try.” He half expected the older man’s candidness to unnerve him, but instead found it refreshing. He realized he enjoyed being exposed and the rare honesty it afforded him. “I keep thinking if I try hard enough, I can learn to love her.”
D.W. let out a surprised grunt. Decanting a nearly empty bottle of booze, he refilled his glass before passing the bottle to Peter. “You can teach the mind to do many things, my lad, but the heart… Well the heart is another matter entirely.”
“And what if you have no heart?”
The director scrutinized him for few moments before answering. “You most certainly have a heart, lad. So tell me, where have you left it?”
Considering with whom he conversed, the question shouldn’t have surprised him, but it unsettled him nonetheless. He swallowed half his drink before acquiescing with a sigh. “Across the ocean—a long time ago.”
“Perhaps you should go in search of it.”
Peter sighed, embracing the veracity of the moment. “As much as I dream to the contrary, the lady cares nothing for me.”
D.W. nodded sagely. “I wondered if your most recent letter from abroad contained bad tidings. I somehow sensed it might.”
Peter started. “Which letter?”
“The one that arrived last Wednesday,” Peter’s uncomprehending expression caused the other man to continue carefully. “It arrived after our last shoot…You had gone for the day… I gave it to Lily to give to you… When I asked her the next day, she confirmed that she had…” The look on Peter’s face caused the director to falter. “She kept if from you then?”
Shaking his head back and forth, Peter said in a low voice. “I haven’t received a letter from home in nearly three months.” With a hard set to his jaw, Peter rose. “Excuse me please. I believe I need to have a word with my fiancée.”
Leaping to his feet, D.W. caught Peter’s arm. “Allow me, my lad. Perhaps it would be more prudent if I sent your fiancée to you.” Peter could only nod dumbly at the suggestion. He appreciated the discretion, but lacked the ability to voice the words.
After D.W.’s departure, Peter emptied the bottle into his glass but rather than finish the contents he crossed st
iffly to the mantle, deliberately placing his back to the door. The fire seemed to mirror the rage churning inside of him. Why would Lily keep correspondence from him? Didn’t she understand he was a man dying of thirst and it was only those letters that kept him alive? He could go for months on the sustenance that one sentence about her provided. Knowing she lived, despite the pain caused by the details, made it possible to go on. How could Lily rob him of his only nourishment – indeed of his very life?
Two distinct pairs of footsteps echoed behind him and he grasped for control, knowing he teetered on the edge of a precipice.
Lily crossed to him and hugged him from behind. “There you are, my darling. I daresay that everyone has been looking for your charming self.”
Peter felt cold to his core. He dared not move, lest his wrath get the better of him. With calm he did not feel, he stated, “I believe you have something of mine.”
“I can’t think what, darling.” Lily placed a kiss against his neck, causing him to stiffen ever so slightly.
From the doorway D.W. clear his throat. “Perhaps I should be seeing to my guests.” He asked Peter pointedly, “Shall I go, lad?”
“No.” Peter wrenched himself out of Lily’s arms and took a deep, calming breath, before turning around. “I mean, please stay D.W., since this concerns you.” His fierce scowl turned on Lily who pretended to smile bravely in the face of it. “Tell me Lily, did D.W. recently give you anything to give to me? A letter maybe?”
She looked from one man to the other and found nothing encouraging in either countenance. Pretending to think hard on it, she remembered slowly. “Now that you mention it, I did have a letter to give to you.” She let out a brief musical laugh. “It must have slipped my mind, until this very moment. Sorry.”
“Damn your sorry,” Peter growled. “I want that letter. Now!”
“Of course, Peter.” Lily was a composition of innocence. “I would have given it to you sooner, if I hadn’t truly forgotten.”
She rummaged about in her handbag and pulled out a familiar cream envelope. Peter snatched it from her hand, anxiously noting the London post mark before turning it over. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. “It’s been opened,” he stated flatly.
“It came like tha-”
“Get out!” Peter rarely got angry, so to hear him bellow, see him quaking with rage, was a fearsome sight indeed. Blanching, Lily wisely closed her mouth and let D.W. lead her from the room. Peter had no presence of mind to take note of their leaving. He was singularly focused on the letter and wild thoughts about the tidings it contained. Chilled to the bone, he reseated himself in front of the fire and drained his scotch in one greedy gulp. Then with trembling hands he opened his most recent letter from his brother.
Inside was the expected single page of matching stationary filled with Griffin’s sturdy script. Unexpected were the two newspaper clippings that fluttered quietly onto Peter’s lap.
Which to read first?
Peter sat for a long time unable to read anything. At length he made up his mind to start with the letter, lest the clippings contained notices that might be taken out of context. Wishing he had another tumbler of Scotch to fortify himself, he eased the letter open and willed himself to read the first words.
Dearest Brother, Griffin’s greeting was usually a balm to his soul, but not today. First I want to offer my congratulations! Though I am quite put out that I had to learn of your good tidings from London’s society column rather than your own hand. Please let me know when the blessed event will occur, so that I can make the proper travel arrangements. It is of no use to dissuade me, for there is no distance I would not traverse to partake in your happiness. It does my heart glad to think you have finally found respite from your agony!
In light of such gladsome tidings, I hope I am not amiss in including another bit of news from London’s society pages. Perhaps now that you have found your own joy, it will give you the closure you so desperately need.
I remain as always, you loving brother.
Griffin.
Despite the fire, Peter shivered. His stomach churned unpleasantly and he could not seem to find his breath. In the corner of his eye, he noticed that D.W. had returned but remained prudently in the doorway. With growing dread he picked up the two newspaper clipping that had accompanied Griffin’s tidings. Willing his eyes to focus, he scanned the first one. It was a recent account of his engagement to Lily published in the London Herald. Damn! It had never occurred to him this bit of folly would be noteworthy enough to become news back home.
Cursing under his breath he hastily examined the other paper. It was another engagement notice. This one however, announced the upcoming nuptials of one James Christopher Whitby III to one Wendy Moira Angela Darling.
The words, in black and white print, seemed to have no initial effect on him. In a stupor, he stood with the intent of finding more scotch. Peter had taken a mere handful of steps before his heart pitched sharply against his chest and he doubled over uttering a hollow groan.
“Let me help you, lad.”
Peter heard D.W. coming to his assistance, felt the good man reach out to support his arm but found himself impervious to his host’s kindness. Through clenched teeth, he spoke. “I’m all right!”
“But, my lad, you’re in pain.”
He shook out of the man’s fatherly grasp. “It isn’t that kind of pain,” Peter replied darkly. His strength failed him and he sunk to his knees, while the two announcements mingled in his brain. Scanning the clippings for confirmation, he marked that Wendy’s notice was exactly one week after his own appeared. Was the timing a coincidence? He didn’t dare think otherwise – that his notice would have in any way influenced Wendy’s decision. Impossible!
And yet deep inside, the innocent part of Peter—that part which refused to grow up and harden into a man—pleaded with him for adherence. First a quiet whisper, growing louder and more sure, then into a deafening roar, a cacophony.
‘Tis true, the childish voice inside him cried, she was driven to such measures by you Peter! He shook his head to clear it, but the voice would not be silenced. ‘Tis true Peter. By you…
Abruptly Peter straightened, his purpose startlingly clear before him. He laid an apologetic hand on D.W. Griffith’s arm. “I’m sorry, Sir. I must away.”
“Of course,” nodded the other sympathetically. “I dare say things will seem better tomorrow.”
“I shan’t be here on the ‘morrow.” Peter said the last over his shoulder, as he was striding toward the door.
Comprehension must have sunk in because D.W. called after him in alarm, “Just where are you going, lad?”
“Home,” Peter said surely, “To reclaim my heart.”
The following night as Peter slept in his drawing room aboard a train bound for New York, he dreamt of his return home. Impatient, he had forsaken modern modes of travel and simply flown the distance. Up ahead was London, deep in slumber and lit by a backdrop of twinkling stars. And look, there was Wendy’s street! Although he had been away for moons and moons and moons he knew she would always keep the window open for him.
Look, up ahead—No. 14, and there, Wendy’s window; but as he came upon the house, the window was barred. Wendy had forgotten about him and another pale head was in her bed, sleeping aside her where Peter ought to have been.
His agony was exquisite as he grasped the bars, staring at the scene within. Peter realized then that he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.
CHAPTER 13
Wendy Grows Up
Something as dark as night had come into Wendy’s life…
Though it was a glorious sun-drenched morning, and she was soaking in a hot bath, Wendy could not rid herself of the chill that crept up her spine. Distractedly she watched ripples work their way across the water’s surface like little shivers. Her recent dreams, almost always centering on the ocean or a ship, were increasing in violence and incomprehension. The
re were men, a most villainous-looking lot of pirates, intent on doing her harm. Without benefit of words, she felt their black intensions.
Their dreadful song still echoed in her ears.
Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,
You walks along it so,
Till it goes down and you goes down
To Davy Jones below!
She oft dreamt of pirates in her life, but lately there was none of the thrilling adventure and thrice the terror. Her dread of them, both asleep and awake, was suffocating. These were no ordinary dreams, but nightmares that clung to her person upon waking like a putrid sludge. Each night upon closing her eyes their malice drew closer and Wendy prayed for the return of one person who could save her from their horrible fate. But Peter remained heartlessly absent. Leaving her at their awful mercy, alone and utterly unprotected.
Running her hands across her temples, Wendy sought to push the dreams out of her head. She ascribed them to being a newly engaged woman. It was normal to have doubts before the wedding, even of the most fatalistic kind. Both her mother and Aunt Mildred had judiciously told her so, although how her spinster Aunt would know about such things was beyond Wendy’s comprehension.
Ringing for old Liza, Wendy began to dress for the engagement dinner her future in-laws were hosting in hers and James’s honor. It was of great relief that Viscount Withington and Maimie were on the guest list. How Wendy had missed her dear friend these past months. Maimie’s pregnancy confinement had taken its toll on the both of them. Now that she had delivered the Viscount a healthy heir, she was again free, and the Viscount again neglectfully aloof.
Maimie had taken well to motherhood. Of course, it was easy to mother when you had someone else to bathe, feed and change your bundle of joy. Still at times Wendy couldn’t help but wonder if her friend’s glow was as much motherhood as the fact that since achieving progeny the Viscount had taken to a separate bedchamber.
