The trouble was—and this shook him, this was what made him doubt himself, too much—he was, by now, quite sure that had Rose Quinn ever seen her chance to hurt or destroy that other woman, she would have done it.
He could not help being glad that Oppie Etting (by whatever method) had squelched that rumor about Mrs. Quinn, the accused, living here. He would have had to take Rose somewhere … and he did not know where else to go.
In Sans Souci, however, there was a subfaction within a faction that Morgan Lake did not know about.
Oppie Etting dared not have him know.
Now that Agnes Vaughn was on Nona Henry’s side, Agnes, of course, was no longer suspecting her of being Mrs. Quinn. The odd part was that Agnes’ discarded suspicion lived on. Harriet Gregory and Oppie Etting held it together, and in secret.
Harriet Gregory was rather a happy woman these days, comparatively speaking. It was very pleasant to find herself on the right side in this feud, to be associated with Mrs. Fitz, and Georgia Oliver, and all the “better” element. It was rather fun to cut the Three, to look away when that Nona Henry (so rude!) went by, to hash the story over and over with Bettina Goodenough and Sarah Lee Cunneen.
It was even better that she and Mr. Etting could put their heads together in the evenings and shudder deliciously. For Harriet had brought up to him what she had heard Agnes Vaughn say. A stranger had been seen in Sans Souci that famous day, the day of Mrs. Quinn. Oppie Etting, not displeased to find himself corroborated, had confessed to her that he had not wanted to lie, or to make a fool of Harriet, but he had been forced to do so. Pressure had been put upon him. He might have lost his job.
So all was forgiven between them. There was a Mrs. Quinn. Who was she? Why, Nona Henry was so obviously a reckless liar, unscrupulous, immoral—to tell such a crazy story! As if Robert Fitzgibbon, of all people (so good-looking, such manners, such poise), would hit an old woman! Or, engaged to lovely Georgia Oliver, would ask an old woman to marry him. Really! Or would have threatened suicide! Why, that was impossible! He had everything. Career, talent, looks, breeding, his mother’s devotion and Georgia’s devotion. Something must be wrong with that Nona Henry!
As a matter of fact (said Harriet) she was rather rude and crude, and had been in the beginning. Harriet could always tell!
Who knew anything about her background?
Another thing, the way she had Winnie Lake up in her apartment every afternoon. Really! One wondered. Oh, there are dark and vicious doings in this world and although one preferred to turn and look away, still there are such people.…
Actually, Nona Henry ought to be asked to leave (said Harriet). For Sans Souci had always been respectable, the decent widows deserved protection. But Oppie said he could not speak to Mr. Lake. Oh, he agreed, Mrs. Henry ought to go, all right. That was what he thought, too.
That was also what Rose Lake thought.
When Morgan Lake came down from having seen Tess Rogan, he found Rose in a passion. She had found out about the feud.
Lily, the younger maid, had told her. Oh, Lily knew how to appear very meek and mild and biddable. It was, considering her chocolate skin, the best economic policy. But she did not feel any such way, and she took out the frustrations caused by her masquerade in sharp and contemptuous eavesdropping.
(It was by the mercy of Mindy Shane that Lily had never told Rose Lake how some of the widows kept talking about some Mrs. Quinn. Mindy Shane had given direct warning about this. And here Lily was biddable, for Mindy Shane not only didn’t kid around, but had a son, Kelly, who was single and interesting.)
But this feud that was raging, Lily knew all about that. And Mindy Shane was home, sick. And Kelly Shane wasn’t finding Lily very interesting. And Lily felt restless. So she told Rose Lake in restless malice, for Lily knew how Rose Lake would react.
Rose Lake chose her side, at once.
“Morgan, that’s a terrible thing! What that woman is spreading around about Robert Fitzgibbon. You better get that woman to move out. You know this isn’t good for the building. You know she is trouble. You can tell her the place was rented ahead of time. Get her out.”
“You mean Mrs. Henry?” asked Morgan Lake.
Winnie was silent. Winnie’s hands were clasped together. He could read on her face the struggle between loyalty to a friend and the well-realized uselessness of any expression of that loyalty. The fear, indeed, that to express it would damage the friend still more. Winnie was on a spot and Rose was triumphantly pinning her there.
“I’ll talk to Avery myself,” cried Rose. “I’ll make him see that we have to get rid of her.”
“I don’t think you’ll do that,” said Morgan tiredly.
“Then you do it.”
“I don’t see … why I should. Or how I can.”
He got a grateful flash of Winnie’s eyes.
“It will blow over,” he said to Rose, carelessly.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Rose cried. “Winnie’s not going up there any more.”
Winnie’s young throat became corded.
“No, you’re not, young lady. I won’t have it! She’s a lying troublemaker and I don’t care whether you’ve finished this crazy sewing or not. I want you to stop seeing that Mrs. Henry, at once! You hear me?”
“I heard,” said Winnie.
“Because if you don’t,” said Rose, “I will go to Avery Patrick myself and I’ll insist … in fact, I’ll go tell Mrs. Henry to get out. And I think she’d go.”
She was standing, neck forward, her whole body tense with the energy of hatred. Anyone would get out.
“You can’t do that, Rose,” Morgan said not belligerently, but wearily. It didn’t do to oppose any passion to Rose’s passions. She enjoyed the exercise. She could always win.
“If Winnie doesn’t promise me,” Rose said, “I’ll do it. I’ll get her out of here.”
“I won’t see her if you don’t want me to,” said Winnie meekly.
She raised her eyes and Morgan caught her thoughts. The promise was made to protect the friend, of course. And the promise was a lie. What else was there to do but lie to Rose? Winnie had chosen her side. She was for Nona Henry. She would see Nona Henry, as best she could.
Morgan Lake could not blame her, exactly. He could only try to be the buffer.
Chapter 26
The next afternoon, Nona waited for Winnie Lake some time without alarm. The girl was late. At last, so late that Nona began to realize what could have happened.
But she had been looking forward to the girl’s appearance. To her company.
In and out of Sans Souci, the last couple of days, Nona Henry traveled alone.
She was not seeing much of Tess Rogan. Tess seemed to be lying low and saying little. She traveled, in a silent way, mysteriously alone. Nona had found herself a little impatient with Tess, who had not yet said that Nona was kind or loyal, to be fighting Tess’s battles. Nor had she said that Nona was right, to be fighting for the truth. In fact, Tess had tried to say that Robert Fitzgibbon’s blow had been an accident. Nona was quite flustered and dismayed. It sometimes seemed to Nona that Tess Rogan, in her uncanny detachment, was not even on her own side.
There was no denying, Nona felt this loneliness.
She remembered her first week at Sans Souci and that loneliness. How she had had no connections. How she had sat in her window. But this was a loneliness of a different quality. She was the pariah.
Morgan Lake, true, was exactly as courteous as ever. But Oppie Etting had become much too courteous, in a strange and almost frightened way. The widows on the other side of the schism all took good care—in fact some went out of their way—to cut Mrs. Henry dead.
(Whisper! Whisper! Whatever got into that Nona Henry!)
Nona was especially disappointed in Daisy Robinson. Daisy wouldn’t discuss the matter. She, more or less absent-mindedly, cut most people on occasion, with her habit of quick leave-takings, unoiled by any pretty speeches.… But these days, Non
a felt that Daisy was being deliberately absent-minded. She would steam by, so very very intent upon Daisy’s own business. Or else, in the brief glimpse of Daisy’s lively eye, Nona would read one word, of dubious etymology: Phony?
Not everyone was against her, of course. But Nona was almost more dismayed to realize who was on her side.
The Unholy Three! Nona had, however, gone around to Agnes Vaughn’s apartment the evening before, feeling that after all they were her partisans and, as such, they should have some grateful attention.
She had found them in session. She had been welcomed. Agnes Vaughn, in the midst of all the debris, had been cordial and unapologetic, quite as if her home had been a mansion, immaculate, complete with staff. Felice Paull had bent her huge head, beamed her sympathetic eyes that almost wept with the pity of it, and had begun to explain to Nona that Mrs. Rogan had a legal case—or so Felice felt sure—and she might very well be able to sue. For there were laws to protect people. And why did Nona not suggest this? (Nona quaked at the very notion.)
There was Ida Milbank, a nibbling mouse, squeaking irrelevantly from time to time. Into Nona’s mind came a thing from Browning (was it?). “Weke, Weke …” The poor woman repelled her.
On the whole, Nona had been barely able to swallow the crumbly bit of cake politely, meanwhile fending off Felice’s advice, enduring Ida’s squeaks, and trying not to cringe away from the cordial shine of Agnes’ eyes.
Finally she got away. Oof!
This afternoon, when Winnie seemed to be defaulting, Nona realized that she had nowhere to go, or at least no one to go talk to. She braced herself, and took up the sewing. Finished the hem. It was something to do.
Her bell didn’t ring. Instead, there was a scratching on the door. About six o’clock. Winnie Lake had come, at last.
“I’m supposed to be going to the store,” she gasped. “I snuck back down the ramp and up the elevator from the basement. Mrs. Henry, I’ve got to explain. Mom says I can’t see you any more.”
“I was afraid …”
Winnie said, “But I have to. I can manage. I can always say I have a date and sneak up this way, in the evening …?”
Nona took a step backward. “No, dear.”
Winnie understood at once. “But she’s not fair!” cried Winnie. “It’s all that stuff about the other night. And I don’t believe that you are the one who’s telling lies. I know you aren’t.”
“I’m not,” said Nona. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, for a minute … I’ve been thinking about you.”
She drew the girl deeper into the living room.
“The time is late,” she said steadily. “This is what you must do. You promised me. You must go to a doctor, Winnie. You know a doctor, don’t you? Your family has one?”
“Yes.”
“Then go. You can make the appointment yourself. He can make tests and then you will be sure. This waiting, this … you can’t afford it any longer. Afterwards, you must tell your mother all about it.”
Winnie was looking bleakly into her eyes.
“This is the only way,” said Nona. “I’ve stood by you—about as long as is possible and longer than was wise.” Nona was cold with the knowledge that what she was saying was true.
“Mrs. Henry,” Winnie burst, “I wanted to ask you.… If I can’t see you any more … got to ask you, now.”
“Ssh …”
“Your own daughter is coming, pretty soon?”
“Yes. Pretty soon.”
“Do you … might you be going back to your home? I mean, with her?”
“I don’t think …”
“Sometime?” said Winnie desperately.
“Sometime, I suppose.”
“Mrs. Henry, I’ll do what you say,” said Winnie. “Just exactly what you say. I promised. And I know it’s right. But, if I have a baby, I’ll have to be everything the baby needs.”
(Nona thought, Well, I see I’ve taught her something.)
“Only I know what my mother is going to be like. I just know. And I don’t see how. Please … what I wanted to ask … can I go home with you?”
Nona sank down in a chair, shocked.
Winnie went down on the rug before her. “I’ll work! I wouldn’t be expensive! I’d do everything. It’s just …”
“Shsh …”
(What a corny scene! thought Nona. How absurd!)
It was, however, happening, and it was not altogether absurd. The girl’s eyes tore her heart.
“Winnie,” she said slowly, meeting those eyes with all that she was (whatever), “do not depend on me.”
“I know it’s an awful lot to ask …”
Nona repeated, “Do not depend on me. I am your friend. But I am not your mother or even your aunt. There are things I can’t do.” Nona made a helpless gesture. “Even if I wanted to take you back home with me, which I do not,” said Nona carefully, “I couldn’t, dear. Your family wouldn’t allow it and there are laws. It’s not possible.”
Winnie said quietly, “Len is dead and I am responsible and none of it is the baby’s fault. It has to have a chance like any other baby. I know …”
“Yes.”
“But if I could only …” The girl threw herself upon Nona’s knees. “You don’t know my mother.”
“Listen,” said Nona, “I have a life. People as old as I am have lives, Winnie. And I, well, I may be going to visit my son-in-law in Seattle. I might not, quite suddenly, be here, at Sans Souci. Winnie, my dear, the time is late, and now I simply must push you … to stand up. For your sake, do not depend on me. Do you see?”
The girl was weeping. Tears slid silently down her face. But she nodded.
Nona said, “We’ll say good-by then, in case we can’t see each other for a while. Or if I should go away.” Nona put her arms around the girl and hugged her. “I’ve gotten pretty fond of you,” she said, half in tears herself. “But I wouldn’t do you any favor if I let you think you can depend on me, for anything, that is, but staying fond …”
Nona was sniffling.
The girl drew herself gently away.
“I just want to thank you, Mrs. Henry, for all that you have done,” she said rather drearily. Her eyes were dark, very dark, like Rose Lake’s eyes.
Nona said, “You are only seventeen. But—a woman?”
Winnie nodded.
“I can’t have you for my child,” cried Nona. “I can’t have you for my own. Nor should I.”
“I guess nobody—is anybody’s, really,” said Winnie Lake, “except a little baby, for a while.”
She got up. Nona rose. They stood.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” Nona grabbed her and smacked both her cheeks and held her tight.
Then Nona, very carefully, let her go. Winnie accepted the letting-go and stood straight.
Now Nona’s heart put her brain down in one surge. “I shouldn’t … but I will go with you to the doctor,” Nona said. “Let me know?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henry,” Winnie said, almost unemotionally. She left quickly.
Nona thought, Oh Lord, what have I done?
She walked up and down her living space. The dress lay, half-hemmed, upon the sofa. She wanted nothing to do with that dress.
What would she do? Fix a meal. Eat it. In silence? But her ears were bursting with the silence. Nona braced up and decided angrily that she would go out to dinner. Why not? There was a world. She was, whatever else she was, alive in it.
In the lobby of Sans Souci, Mrs. Henry encountered Caroline Buff and said, “Good evening.”
Mrs. Buff inclined her handsome head. “Good evening, Mrs. Henry.” With a finality! Caroline Buff would not compromise her own good manners. Neither was she going to take a side. Nor was she going to be very much concerned if this offended both sides. Caroline Buff was above this petty feuding.
Nona Henry slipped out of Sans Souci, alone.
There was no avoiding Mrs. Fitz entirely … so near, across the hall. As Nona came back from the resta
urant, Mrs. Fitz and Georgia were just emerging. The evening visiting hours, thought Nona. They’re going to the hospital, of course. But a casual greeting stuck in Nona’s throat. Before she could get it out, she saw that Mrs. Fitz’s purple eyes were seeing the wall as if Nona Henry were transparent. Georgia did not smile or tilt her head, either. Georgia Oliver was just blind.
So Nona went into her own place, without speaking or having been spoken to, or even seen—and it hurt. Nona had to admit that it hurt very much. Unjust. Undeserved.
Her rooms were dead. Oh, they were full of flowers. The arrangements were right and beautiful. My little lonely hobby, Nona thought, and no one to see.
She felt hurt, despondent. It would be good to go to Dane’s—just pack. One could fly to Seattle. But Dodie and Si were coming out. She couldn’t now upset their plan. Must she stay until then?
Nona Henry was very close to running away, to being driven away from Sans Souci, in that low moment.
Mrs. Fitz and Georgia reached the elevator. They had been very rude. They knew it. They did not discuss it. They waited for the poky cage to come up from the basement and, while they did so, here came Daisy Robinson whizzing along. “Going down, eh?”
“We’ve rung,” said Georgia.
Daisy was sensitive enough to miss the normal cooings. She looked at the two of them, so silent and stiff.
“For grown women,” said Daisy Robinson tartly, “the people in this house are behaving like a pack of emotional adolescents.”
Mrs. Fitz’s small chin came higher.
“Let’s not talk about it, Daisy,” cooed Georgia.
“Why not?” said Daisy abruptly. “The whole thing is simply ridiculous.”
“I cannot see,” said Mrs. Fitz plaintively, “that a wicked lie about my son is ‘simply ridiculous.’ Really, Daisy.”
“If Nona Henry is telling what you call a ‘wicked lie,’” said Daisy, “why don’t you face her and have it out? Or—prove it? Either it is a lie or it isn’t. Tess Rogan should know the facts. Have it out with her, why don’t you?”
“I know a fact myself,” said Mrs. Fitz, rather saucily. “The fact that my son Robert is an honorable gentleman. And I have no wish to discuss him with Mrs. Rogan.”
Seventeen Widows of Sans Souci Page 25
