by Jane Peart
“I’ve read your partial manuscript, Mrs. Traherne. It has received unanimously high marks from others on my editorial staff. I’m interested in discussing with you your reasons for writing this and for taking the stand that you do.”
A slight flush swept over her pale face, and she leaned forward a little and said, “Because I think this country is in danger of being drawn into another foreign war, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’m not being paranoid-—the signs are everywhere. But most people don’t seem to realize what’s happening. It’s as if they’ve forgotten the horror of the last war. I want to remind them of the awful price paid by the young men who were made to fight it.” Her voice had the soft cadence of a southerner, yet it had the fervor of a zealot. “As you know from my cover letter, I was a field nurse in France for two years. I saw war firsthand. It’s madness. And I don’t want to see it happen again. I had to do whatever I could to prevent it. That’s why I wanted to write this book—”
Suddenly Kitty halted, terrified of seeing glass-eyed boredom on his face. That had happened so many times when she had brought up this subject or when she had been compelled to interject her opinion in a conversation. She knew people felt she had become a fanatic—but she didn’t care anymore. This was her chance. She had to make her case, sell Craig Cavanaugh on the idea. She wanted this book published.
“Have you written any more than what you submitted, what I’ve read?”
Kitty felt her cheeks get warm. She had, on impulse, brought more of the manuscript with her—just in case. It was in a slim leather case she had placed on the floor beside her chair. She drew the case onto her lap, unzipped it, took out fifty more neatly typed pages, and handed them across the desk.
Accepting them, Cavanaugh said, “Fine. I’m spending the weekend out in Long Island. I have a place there, away from phones and other distractions. I will give this my full attention, I promise. I think I can say that if this"—he tapped a forefinger on the stack of paper—"is as compelling and well written as the first fifty pages, we are definitely interested in working with you.”
Kitty felt her heart jump into her throat. She started to say something but couldn’t manage it.
“Is there a number at which I can reach you?” he asked, his pen poised above the memo pad on his desk.
She gave him her phone number. She stood up then, carefully smoothing her gloves. “Thank you, Mr. Cavanaugh, for your time.”
Cavanaugh rose, too, wishing he could think of something to keep her a little longer. An invitation to lunch, perhaps? No, that would seem too—besides, he had an editorial board meeting at two. She walked toward the office door, and he followed quickly, opening it for her. “It was my pleasure. Good day, Mrs. Traherne. I’ll be in touch.”
She nodded and left—leaving Craig Cavanaugh strangely let down.
Once out at his beach house, Cavanaugh opened his briefcase and drew out the folder containing Kitty Traherne’s manuscript.
He read it at one sitting. He got up once or twice and went into the kitchen to refill his coffee mug, still holding the manuscript, hardly glancing up from the pages. He was caught, held, touched, by the story she told in crisp sentences, graphic descriptions, unbelievably poignant scenes. No question, he thought, Kitty Traherne can write.
It was getting dark when he finished and put the manuscript aside. He got a sweater and went out to walk on the beach in the last glow of the day, still in the throes of the book’s last chapter, “Armistice Day.” It was about the end of the war, which had come when the young nurse was beyond caring, and too late for her young patient.
Craig Cavanaugh could not remember when he had been so moved by a piece of writing.
Kitty Traherne’s face came back into his mind. He saw the pain in her eyes, heard the urgency in her voice as he recalled the passion with which she had told him her reason for writing this book. Cavanaugh dealt with writers all the time. That was his business. But there was something about Kitty Traherne that touched him in a nonprofessional way.
Before the day she came into his office, he’d only seen her once—in the photograph on the back of Richard Traherne’s book of poetry. But when she walked in, he had felt a strange sense of recognition, as though he had met her somewhere before. He had tried to hold on to the sensation, but it was like a photograph that grew faded by too much handling. She seemed so composed, so untouched—and yet Cavanaugh thought he had glimpsed something that lay beneath that surface calm. A quality of commitment, of passion, of intensity for her cause. He felt sure this was a woman with hidden layers, aspects of her personality he would like to discover, explore.
Get ahold of yourself, man, Cavanaugh commanded himself. Handle this the way you handle interviews with authors every day. She’s a total stranger, someone you need to get to know.
Still, there was that uncanny feeling of having known her before…
Maybe it had been the late-afternoon sunlight slanting in through his office window, shadowing her features, giving the impression of sadness, of loneliness and loss.
Whatever it was, Cavanaugh knew he was going to fight to publish this book—and in so doing, he hoped to get to know Kitty Traherne.
On Monday Cavanaugh phoned Kitty to see if he could come by to discuss the book. Her hesitation at the other end of the line made him realize that she knew this was not the ordinary way an editor interested in a project approached a writer. But she agreed, and four o’clock in the afternoon was set.
Her apartment, when he arrived, seemed curiously impersonal to him. There were no intimate touches, such as framed photographs or curios or mementos, that might indicate the personality, the occupation, or the travels of the resident. However, the flowers had been cut and arranged by someone with a tasteful eye, a thoughtful hand.
Cavanaugh suspected that Kitty Traherne did not actually live here but simply used this apartment as a place to work. He found himself curious to see her true environment. That was the key to a person’s personality and character, the things they chose to surround themselves with—the books they cherished, pictures, paintings…
“Well?” she prompted.
He was surprised. For all her delicacy of manner, Kitty Traherne got right to the point. But then, perhaps this was the real Kitty Traherne, the courageous, incredibly competent nurse. “It’s a far cry from the Kitty Traherne on this,” he said, picking up the slim volume of Richard’s poems and turning it over to reveal her photograph. Then he tapped his forehead with his forefinger. “Or in here.”
Ignoring his comment, she asked, “What did you think of it?”
“I was very moved,” he said. “It’s extremely well written, thoughtful, and…explicit and brutal.”
“I meant it to be,” she said, and her tone was steel-edged.
He stayed and they talked for hours. Kitty made coffee and they continued their discussion. He felt the book should be restructured, with the narrator moving from starry-eyed, patriotic idealist to open-eyed, outspoken pacifist. They talked into early evening, when Cavanaugh suggested they go out for dinner. Instead, Kitty scrambled eggs, made more coffee, and they went through the manuscript page by page.
At length Cavanaugh noticed her pallor, the dark smudges under her eyes. He got to his feet at once, apologizing for how late it was. She walked to the door with him, where he asked bluntly, “When can you have it finished?”
“It depends…I’m not sure. The first part went fairly quickly. The rest came harder. I don’t know.”
“Whatever you did, keep doing it. Write from the heart. Editing is our job. Correcting, polishing, revising. We can discuss all that later.”
“I’ll try,” she said, almost overcome by the enormity of what she had taken on. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
Cavanaugh left and Kitty, restless, excited, paced her apartment. She wished she had someone to share this with. Ordinarily she would have called Cara. But that was out of the question. Or if Richard—but then, he would be wit
h her as she finished this book. She knew she was doing this for Richard and all the others, the voiceless ones who had perished. She had picked up the torch their dying hands had dropped. Thank God, she knew this was what she had been called to do, and she would fulfill her mission.
chapter
15
Mayfield
Fall 1937
WITHIN A FEW months, Gatehouse Interiors began to gain a reputation as a place to find unique gifts and collectibles. Evalee’s panache and obvious good taste, as well as the lure of dealing with a real countess, brought in customers, and her business began to show a small profit.
However, her cash flow was often nonexistent. The depression hovered uneasily over prospective buyers. Evalee was never sure where she would get the money to keep going. Through it all, she held on to her belief that using her God-given talent was the best way for her to support herself and her child, and that things would work out eventually. Her optimism often ran thin, but her determination to succeed never wavered.
Wealthy northerners, untouched by the country’s prevailing economic crisis, had flocked to this rural countryside, buying up large houses that owners could no longer afford and renovating them. Most of the new owners yearned to recapture an authentic antebellum look, and they needed advice. Who better to give such advice than a descendant of one of the FFVs? With the added prestige of her Russian title, Evalee was becoming known as the interior decorator of choice.
In spite of this, Evalee often had bouts of despair. Her business was too new to get a bank loan, particularly in these times, when bank managers, burned by the crash of 1929, were overly cautious. Only Dru knew the financial tightrope her daughter walked, and she tried to help any way she could. A loving grandmother, she was always willing to take care of Natasha so Evalee would be free to attend auctions and estate sales.
One morning early in September, Evalee was at the Mayfield train station to pick up a package from a New York dealer. It was for one of her clients and was due on the next train.
When she pulled up in front of the station house, it appeared deserted. She checked her watch. There was still fifteen minutes until the train from Richmond was due. It was an unusually warm day, too hot to remain in the car, so she got out and went to sit on the bench on the platform outside the ticket office. To make good use of her time, she got out the notebook she always carried in her handbag to jot down random thoughts, ideas, or things she should do. For a few minutes she wrote busily. Her list grew rapidly.
Check date of estate sale at Wemberly.
Pick up fabric swatches for draperies Mrs. Hinton asked about.
Make dentist appointment for Natasha.
At the sound of a powerful motor, her pencil stopped and she looked up to see a sleek silver car of some foreign make pull in beside her secondhand station wagon. The car’s convertible top was down. She saw that the driver was a dark-haired man wearing sunglasses. When he got out, she noticed that he was tall, dressed casually but expensively. He wore a butter-colored suede sport jacket over an open-necked blue sports shirt, and beige slacks. He ran briskly up the steps, crossed the platform. As he passed Evalee, he gave her a swift, careless look before going into the station house.
Who is he? she wondered. A man like that would demand notice in any circumstance. In a small town like Mayfield, he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. The depression had lasted a long time in this part of Virginia. New cars or well-dressed men were rarely seen nowadays.
A few minutes later he reappeared, a package under one arm. He glanced at Evalee again. This time she met his gaze. A slight smile touched his mouth, and his eyes seemed to evaluate her.
Evalee lifted her head coolly and turned away. Insolent! she thought, inwardly bristling.
He stood there another half minute, long enough to light a thin, dark cigarette, then went down the steps. Back in his car, he started it with a roar, spun it around, and sped down the road.
Irrationally, Evalee felt annoyed by this stranger. Even his walk irritated her. He had a kind of arrogant grace that shouted supreme self-confidence. She felt that her experience had made her a pretty good judge of human nature. In her clerking jobs in France, she had had to wait on enough such customers—moneyed people who flaunted their wealth ostentatiously, treated store employees like dirt. Of course, by doing so, they showed their own lack of breeding. Obviously he was what the French contemptuously called nouveau riche. Mayfield was old family, old money, old tweeds, not flashy cars, new clothes, swagger. Whoever that man was, he was out of place here, no matter how affluent he was.
The following week Evalee went to the estate sale at Wemberly, which had belonged to one of the oldest families around Mayfield. Once it had been a great plantation, but little by little its acreage had been sold off. Now there was only six acres and the crumbling old house left. The last living member of the Wemberly family was an elderly spinster. The house, with its entire belongings, was up for auction, to pay off the many liens against it.
Evalee was preoccupied as she turned into the long driveway that led up to Wemberly. A sign posted at the entrance announced the time the auction would begin. There was always a preview period set an hour or two beforehand so prospective bidders could browse among the belongings, decide on what they would bid.
It was with a mingling of sadness and anticipation that she found a parking place among the assorted vehicles already in front of the once splendid mansion. Evalee felt sadness that this golden age was dying, that another of these magnificent old homes was on the auction block. Yet she could not deny the tingle she felt as she thought of the treasures she might discover.
She had a list of things some of her clients were hoping she would acquire for their home-decorating plans. She would also be looking for any “gems” to buy for resale in her shop, items that might catch the eye of wealthy customers.
A variety of such items were set out on the sweeping lawn, marked with their starting bid—chairs, tables, lamps, whole sets of china, bric-a-brac, silver teapots, umbrella stands. The accumulation of a lifetime—several lifetimes. The Wemberly family named among their illustrious members, dating back to pre-Revolutionary Virginia, statesmen, soldiers, botanists, a famous writer, a diplomat. To say nothing of outstanding huntsmen, from the look of trophies, horse show cups, and other such mementos of the glories of field and racetrack.
Evalee, notebook and pen in hand, moved about, marking down the things she might want to bid on. Totally preoccupied, she did not notice the man approaching her. When he spoke she was startled. She was even more surprised when she turned around to see the speaker. It was the same man she had noticed the week before at the train station.
He extended a business card, announcing his name as if she should know it. “Trent MacGowan. And you, I believe,” he added with an edge of sarcasm, “are Countess Oblenskov of Gatehouse Interiors. Am I correct?”
Evalee glanced at his card, then looked at him again. His features were roughcast in a deeply tanned face. Dark hair waved back from a high forehead, where a V-shaped scar was white against the dark skin. The open-necked denim shirt and its rolled-up sleeves revealed a tan chest and arms. His whole appearance had a studiedly casual air. Phony, Evalee mentally decided.
MacGowan wasted no time on triviality. “I’ve just closed the deal on the house.” He jerked his head toward Wemberly. “It’s falling to pieces, of course, after years of neglect. I’m having it completely restored. That will take some time. I’m looking for someone with taste, and experience in dealing with all the people I’ll have to hire in order to get the job done. I need someone with a knowledge of the type of decoration used in the eighteenth century, when the house was built. It will be important to have a historical perspective of the period, so that if we cannot obtain the real thing, if antiques are not available, we can have authentic reproductions made. My priority is to bring this house as close to the way it looked when it was newly constructed—wall colors, upholstery, decorations, a
ll that sort of thing.”
Evalee was too overwhelmed by this avalanche of information to even comment. And his next statement really stunned her.
“You’ve been recommended to me as the person to contact. There are more than twenty rooms that need painting, remodeling…Did you know that these old houses don’t have closets in the bedrooms? Where did people put their clothes? Worse still, there’s only one bathroom in the whole place, and that has vintage-1900 plumbing. So all that has to be done before we get to the decorating. But I like nailing things down to the last detail. I want to have plans for each of the rooms now, or at least before the structural restoration is completed.” His dark, uneven eyebrows drew together in a scowl, and he demanded, “Do you think you could do this?”
Evalee was totally taken aback. To delay her reply, she looked down again at his card.
Trent MacGowan, Global Enterprises
New York, London
Although she remained speechless, her mind was busy, calculating, computing, figuring. The job he was proposing was enormous. Could she handle it? The fee would have to be large. She regarded the man, who was piercing her with stiletto eyes. MacGowan didn’t look like someone who would balk at expense. And she had seen the asking price on Wemberly. Even in its present condition, the house was costly, as it stood on valuable land with one of the most magnificent views in all of Mayfield County. MacGowan had bought it—evidently without blinking an eye—so he had money. Even so, she was sure he would want to see every invoice, check every order down to the last detail. You didn’t get to be that rich without knowing where every penny was spent.
