“Very.” I pulled the blanket around me and almost believed it to be true. I watched the sun shoot through the branches. I’d been so enamored with the green that I hadn’t noticed—fall had taken many of the leaves. Time was marching on, and I wondered if the heat had broken at home.
“We took your advice,” Helene said again. “Have you taken mine?” She twisted in her seat.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You chose poorly in Catherine Morland. She’s a good sort of girl, and I know why you did it. Everything about her ached to be a heroine; she threw herself at it. Goodness, that girl was so lost in Gothic romances I had no humor for her for years.” Helene was gripping the back of the seat to keep facing me. “But that’s not you. It’s not because you weren’t born to it that you’re not a heroine. It’s that you’ve shunned it. Too much risk, too much fear.”
“Are we talking about a new character?”
“We’re talking about you, Mary. Your journey is nothing like Catherine’s.” She clutched her husband’s arm. “Maybe I should go back to Mrs. Jennings. People at least believed her when she said stuff, even if she was wrong.”
Herman made no reply.
She turned back to me. “I hope I haven’t upset you, dear.”
“Not at all.” I was too confused to be upset. I turned to face the path behind us again. The stream was disappearing from view. Something was slipping away and I couldn’t grasp it. I stretched up to see over the back of the seat. “So if not Catherine Morland, then who?”
“Anne Elliot from Persuasion, of course. She didn’t think happiness could come her way either, but it did. She just had to stretch a little—and when she recognized it, hold it tight.”
“Oh . . .” I faced backwards again.
After a few more hills, the Muellers were engrossed in their own conversation. I suspected they had forgotten me.
“So is it what you expected?” Herman said to his wife.
“It cost us so much . . . Somehow I feel I’ve been wasteful.”
“Do not say that. What were we saving for? I’m not sure I’ll be able to drive a gig on our seventieth anniversary.”
“But we could have done something you—”
“Hush. I have enjoyed every moment with you. That is all I wanted. I . . . I can’t remember all the names though. They get so jumbled in my head.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Helene sighed. “None of that matters. You are still you and I love you. This is a game and I didn’t expect it to show me how wonderful our normal life is. I’m beginning to miss it . . . When we leave here, let’s ask the children to bring their families for Christmas.”
“Are you afraid I will forget soon?” Herman offered a humorless chuckle.
“I’m afraid I already did. What we have . . . It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
The gig stopped. I looked around and found myself at the stables rather than the house.
“Hello? What are you doing back there? You’re soaked.” Duncan reached for me.
Helene’s hand flew to her mouth. “We forgot! Herman, we forgot poor Mary.”
“Please don’t worry. I was fine.” A coat, holding a hint of citrus, dropped over my shoulders. I twisted to find Nathan close behind me. “Thank you.”
“Your lips are blue,” Isabel cried.
“I am a little cold.”
“Come on. Let’s get you to the house.” Nathan drew me close and hurried me away from the group.
Before I knew it, we crunched across the gravel and the kitchen door swung open. Gertrude gestured us inside. “Grant called and said you got soaked. You need a hot bath.”
“Th . . . That . . . sounds . . . lovely.”
I slid Nathan’s coat off, but he pulled it back over me. “Bring it to me after you’re warm.” He kissed my forehead. “I’ll wait for you.”
Chapter 22
If ever there was a time for a long bath, this was it. Buried in bubbles, I let the morning wash over me. Lines from books floated past with the ease with which I usually recalled theorems—Ohm, Kirchhoff, and Pythagoras now stood beside the truths espoused within Persuasion, Pride and Prejudice, and Clara’s Sense and Senseless.
We can all plague and punish one another. Elizabeth Bennet said it to Caroline Bingley, who was trying to flirt with or “punish” Mr. Darcy for some surly comment. That was true. We could all do that to one another—protect ourselves by causing harm. Intimate as you are, she said, you must know how it is to be done. It was a delicious wisp of spite.
Isabel liked Grant, and I could have ended it. The Nathan story alone would have sent him running. Payback. But Nathan’s grandfather had been right. That would have been about me, not her, and I wanted to be more than that. I wanted more for me, and despite everything, seeing her now as I did, I wanted more for her too.
Finally dressed in the brown wool Isabel had laid out for me, I grabbed Nathan’s coat, now dry from resting on the heated bathroom floor, and stepped into the gallery. I trailed my finger along the glass cases. Books, fans, playing cards, gloves. Cases full of family history—Gertrude’s family history. The prayer book carried each Sunday by her grandmother, perhaps. A fan fluttered by an aunt. They were mere objects now. The emotional value lost, the connection lost, by being tucked away under light and glass.
It had struck me as sad to separate the people from their story. But I had done the same. I recalled my Lanvin shoe box and my mom’s treasures I kept locked away inside it.
“What’s wrong?”
I looked up to find Nathan sitting in the same chair I’d rested in days before.
I shook my head. “I just thought of something I need to do when I get home.”
He stood, shrugged on his coat, and stretched out his hand. Once mine was firmly within it, he tugged and we headed down the stairs. “A special late morning tea is set up on the lawn. Sonia’s been darting up and down the stairs, afraid you would miss it.”
“What have they got in store for us now?”
“If her excitement is any indication, it’ll be over the top.”
Nathan led me through the hallway toward the back of the house rather than out the front door. We crossed the ballroom, and in my mind I could hear the previous evening’s music echoing within its walls. We passed through the narrow glass door at the end, and I could feel the notes of our beautiful silent dance.
“By the way, you were right. It doesn’t work that way.”
I glanced up at him. “What doesn’t?”
“Gertrude popped the TV out of its hidden panel in the Day Room. Isabel walked in, watched a moment of some odd show with a girl with pink hair, then walked back out, no change in her expression at all.”
Day Three. Tomorrow I would have to get her home.
A huge white canvas caught my eye. “Over the top” was an understatement. Across the lawn, situated at the edge of the formal gardens, sat an elaborate picnic. It looked as if they’d moved an entire room out of the house and onto the lawn. There were two of the canvas shades held high on tall wood poles. On the rug laid beneath them sat a table filled with tiered silver trays and two tea services. Chairs were arranged in groupings, and at the edge of the scene stood large wicker bins. I saw the handles of badminton rackets and what I thought was a cricket bat sticking out. The bowls were scattered across their court, a small patch of lawn leveled and cut close like a putting green.
“How did they do all this?”
“When you went up for your bath, I watched from a window.”
I yanked at his hand.
“Not you. This. I watched this. They’ve been carrying all this out for the past hour . . . Come on.”
“There she is.” Helene noticed us first and stepped off the carpet to envelop me in a tight hug. She looped her arm through mine and pulled me close. She smelled of baby powder and roses. “I wondered where you were. I was afraid your adventure was too taxing.”
I met Gertrude at the table. “Thank you for sending
Sonia up with the tea. It was wonderful to find it sitting on the desk.”
“I can’t imagine how cold you were.” Gertrude looked to the house. “The last time I fell in that stream I was sixteen. My brothers pushed me.”
I followed her gaze and studied the house as well. The back was even more impressive than the front. The front was straight—one austere expanse of stone from end to end softened only by the semicircular bays on the corners. The back, however, had two wings flanking each end of the house at ninety-degree angles. Glass windows filled the center section across both floors, and the wings were capped in their own bay windows, also two stories high.
I looked back to Gertrude. Her face had paled and fallen. She threw me a tremulous smile. “They’re all gone now.” The china rattled as she set down the teapot. She clenched her hands, released them, then reached to hand me a cup.
Everyone was present. Isabel sat with Grant near the bowls lawn. She sat ramrod straight, no twenty-first-century slouch. I needed to call Dr. Milton.
Gertrude poured two more cups of tea. I handed mine to Nathan and helped her pass two more to Helene and Herman.
Herman’s eyes looked clouded and young to me. Their expression was not that of the vain, proud Sir Walter Elliot.
“How are you, Admiral Croft?”
“Helene.” He whispered his wife’s name as if it were contraband. “She called you a different name on our ride. I can’t remember it.”
“She called me Anne, but don’t worry about that. If the names are confusing, don’t use any of them. It’s only meant to be fun.”
He nodded but did not look assured. He shifted to face Isabel. “I don’t remember your name either. This is all becoming—” He looked back to me. “Who is she again?”
Isabel didn’t hear us, or if she did, she didn’t acknowledge Herman’s question. She was listening to Helene and the Lottes. It took me a moment to catch on.
“All the common rooms have one,” Sylvia was saying. “Gertrude told us about them when we arrived, but you’d never notice. They are so cleverly hidden.”
“That might be nice for our rest this afternoon. Herman loves that new BBC mystery,” Helene returned to Sylvia. “He’s finding it hard to be away from the fixtures, the familiar things from home. I am too, if the truth be told.”
“That’s understandable. The line can feel too blurry for comfort.” Aaron cast a glance to Herman, who was slowly tuning in to the conversation.
“I do miss Jeopardy. We watch it over dinner. Do you know Jeopardy? It’s an American show.” Helene directed her question to Isabel but didn’t wait for an answer. She smiled to Sylvia. “It’s what keeps my brain so young.”
“Clara does that for me,” Sylvia laughed.
“Can we watch Jeopardy too?” Clara asked.
“If Mrs. Mueller finds it, sure. You might find it dull though.” Sylvia handed her a napkin to place under her cookie.
Clara. Mrs. Mueller. Real names. I looked to Isabel—half concerned, half relieved—to find her sitting straight. I watched her a moment more. There was something off, too rigid, in her stance, and her eyes were unfocused as if seeing the past rather than any of us.
“Isabel?” I handed her a cup of tea. I wanted to capture her focus. I needed to make sure she was all right. “Isabel?”
She looked at me and . . . She was not all right. There was an almost animal panic in her expression. It reminded me of Grant’s description of war. Before I could react or inquire, Clara plopped next to her, almost climbing onto her lap. “Momma said I don’t have to play anymore and Gertrude’s going to move chairs and pillows into the Day Room and make it like a movie theater this afternoon. We can have popcorn too. Do you want to? You can pick the movie.”
Isabel jerked away, and a startled Clara dropped her teacup straight into Isabel’s lap. Isabel jumped up, clutching at her skirt to pull it from her legs, and Clara fell to the ground.
I moved first and waggled Isabel’s skirt like a fan to disperse the heat as I reached for Clara, who sat wide-eyed and crumpled beneath us. “Are you burned? Are you okay?” One question to Isabel, one to Clara. It was hard to tell who was more distraught.
Grant was beside us in an instant and reached for the gown as well.
“Don’t touch me. Get away from me.” Isabel’s words didn’t hold panic. They held anger. They were piercing, guttural, and enraged. She thrashed at Grant, then rounded on Clara. “You ruined it. I knew you would. I said you would. You shouldn’t even be here.”
I was holding Clara’s hand by this time. She slid from my grasp as she sank lower, and I let her go. I was shocked by Isabel. Everyone was.
All the air left our circle. Our camaraderie dissolved. I felt exposed and, as I looked around, it seemed as if everyone else felt the same. We all darted our eyes across the scene as if avoiding a harsh light or the emotions in front of us.
Aaron stepped in front of his daughter and time unfroze. We unfroze. I watched Sylvia’s face darken to a low crimson. It was not the red of embarrassment, but the deeper tone of fury.
“What—” Sylvia’s one word came out low, but she cut off. Her eyes fastened on me. Whatever she saw in my face stopped her cold. I was unsure what my expression conveyed, but it felt cold, blue, and clammy. All of me felt as if I’d broken a fever. Sylvia’s eyes shifted back to Isabel, as did mine.
Isabel paled further, if that was possible, as Aaron scooped Clara up and walked away. We could only see her eyes peeking above her father’s shoulder. The tears and confusion there jolted me to action.
“Isabel? Hey—” I grabbed for her as she teetered. She stiffened and pulled from my grasp. Her lips parted, and an odd, strangled sound reached me. I twisted to follow her line of sight. She stared at Nathan.
“Isabel?” He stepped toward us.
She turned and ran.
I looked around at what was left of the group. Herman and Helene had tucked closer together. They were holding hands. Their heads turned in unison to follow Isabel, then turned back to me. Sylvia’s focus never left me. Her questions were tangible.
“I’m sorry. I can’t explain right now.”
Grant stood beside me. He had backed away at Isabel’s cry. The only muscle now moving was that small one below his right ear. It flexed as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.
With an “Excuse me,” he strode away in the opposite direction Isabel had run.
“I’ll find her . . . I’m so sorry.” I took off after Isabel, leaving Nathan and Gertrude to explain what they would or could to anyone left.
It didn’t take long to find her. Upon entering the hedgerow and the woods behind them, the main path met up with another. Turn right and I would head deeper into the woods to the terraced garden beyond. Turn left and I would drop to the stream. I knew Isabel would always choose water.
She sat on the bench where Nathan and I had blown bubbles only yesterday. I sank beside her, unsure what to say.
We sat a full minute before her words broke the tension. “Mary, I need help.”
I swung my arm around her and pulled her close. “I know.”
She sank into me. “It was so confusing. I saw Clara, but it didn’t feel like her. It felt like me. I remember that age now. I never did anything right. Before the tea fell, I saw it for the first time. We were in our kitchen. The walls were white like the tent and we even had a table with those same knobby legs. Daddy was so angry. I had done something, something about the table, and there were colors. Maybe it was paint, I don’t know. Anyway, I’d ruined it, as I ruined everything. He said that’s why my mom left. I’d ruined that too.” She glanced up at me. “He used to yell a lot when I was a kid, then one day he stopped. I guess I wasn’t worth the energy anymore.”
“That’s not true. And none of it was your fault.”
“I think the paint actually was.” She offered a sideways smile. “Do you remember when we did that at your house?”
I nodded. It was soon after Isabel and I h
ad met. We had a project for social studies, a three-dimensional map that we’d built together. Our mountain ranges were formed from quick-dry clay and mounted to the foam board, and it was my idea to color them with Sharpies. Ink got all over the table. Dad just laughed, but Isabel almost threw up. She also almost sheared the skin off her knuckles scrubbing the table with Comet before Dad gently but firmly pulled her away.
I remember he was quiet all night. As I was going to bed he asked me, “Is everything all right in Isabel’s home?”
I’d answered, “Of course, Daddy. She lives in that new big house on Vine Street. You should see inside. It’s super nice.”
I closed my eyes and hugged Isabel tighter. Sure, I’d been young then and my blindness had a valid excuse, but how long had I held that narrative?
Isabel continued. “Maybe it was my fault, Mary. All of it.”
“You can’t rationally think that.”
Her exhale was so derisive and self-abasing, I couldn’t call it a cry or a laugh. “What about me is rational?”
I squeezed her tighter yet. “Stop.”
“An ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it back there. That poor child—I didn’t even see her, until I did. I saw Aaron first.”
“An ‘I’m sorry’ will cut it, Isabel. Explain it to them, privately. They’ll understand.”
“That I’m crazy?”
“You’re not crazy. You’re hurt.”
She nodded, then shifted away and twisted to face me. “Nathan Hillam is here.”
It was a statement full of questions.
My answer held more. “Yes.”
We stared at each other. I broke the tension this time because I couldn’t hold on to it. I wasn’t angry. It was too hard and too heavy to carry. “He called you, and I answered your phone. He came to help.”
“He came for you.” Again, a statement full of questions. I didn’t answer this time. After a heartbeat, she grabbed my hand and pulled it into her lap. Her dress was soaked and freezing. “I’m so sorry, Mary. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about. I didn’t mean to do it. I was in the middle of it—” Her eyes widened as if she’d discovered something sour and ugly. “No. I knew what I was doing from the beginning.”
The Austen Escape Page 19
