Leeway Cottage

by Beth Gutcheon

  “How do you do, Mr. Moss?”

  “Very well, thank you, Mrs. Brant,” said Laurus cheerfully.

  “You could call him Laurus, Mother,” said Sydney. Considering that she’d given her mother plenty of reason to guess that they’d come home to announce to her their engagement.

  Candace said serenely, “Thank you, dear,” and ignored the suggestion.

  They were standing in the reception hall at The Elms. It was August of 1939, the first time Candace and Sydney had been face-to-face since the previous June, and if Sydney had had any hopes that her absence had made her mother fonder of her, she was over it by the time she and Laurus had tramped across the room to where Candace stood in full regalia, including a silk morning dress and a pair of large gray pearl earrings.

  What Candace saw: her daughter, dressed in some, she supposed, Bohemian getup, a long skirt and sandals, with her dark hair uncut and worn in a bun. She had dimly hoped that a year in New York would have taught “Sydney” something about style, but ...no. It had rather, apparently, encouraged those qualities in her daughter she found least attractive. Exactly as she had told Bernard it would.

  And here on her daughter’s arm, or at her side anyway, was her idea of a beau, a Jew from Europe who played the piano for a living.

  At least he didn’t look Jewish. Trim brown hair, blue eyes, smallish nose, very tidily dressed, and speaking English.

  “Wait till you see Elise Maitland” (pause …) “Sydney. She’s come back from Paris dressed in Mainbocher. Really marvelous.” (She pronounced it man-bo-shay, as if it were French. Laurus happened to know that it was German, and pronounced mane-bocker, but felt he shouldn’t mind if Herr Mainbocher didn’t.)

  “How nice for her. Where would you like us to go, Mother?”

  She meant what rooms. They were still standing in their traveling clothes, after a very long trip by train to Union and a rather hot drive out to the coast. She was ashamed of this welcome.

  “You’re in the room next to mine, upstairs, and your friend is out in the, you know, in poor Aunt Louisa’s wing.”

  In the nursery. Quelle surprise. In the nanny’s room? Or her old bedroom with the folklorica dolls? In any case, virtually in a separate building.

  “I’m in the blue room?”

  “The—what we called the blue room, yes. And your old room is all done over. Mr. Moss will be perfectly comfortable. I’ll get Ralph to show him.”

  “I’ll show him,” said Sydney. She left her suitcase by the door and led Laurus out.

  As they walked together along the swept path, fragrant with pine needles and lined with blooming white Rosa rugosa bushes, Sydney felt like Gretel leading Hansel toward the cottage of the witch. Since the first night Laurus kissed her on Christmas Eve, she had feared this moment, which would follow if their happiness together continued to bloom as it had so suddenly and thrillingly. She had been secretly frantic to guess what exactly he saw in her. She had adopted the ways of the other music students, wearing what they wore, eating where they ate, buying standing-room tickets at the symphony and opera, dreading the moment Laurus would learn she was rich and either be horrified or entirely too pleased.

  She watched him from the corner of her eye as they walked, waiting to learn what would change now.

  The answer was, nothing. If the house was grand, he didn’t seem to notice. He merely looked at her with a slightly wicked smile and said, “Very handsome, the formidable Mama.”

  When they came to the door of Poor Auntie Louisa’s wing, he put his valise and raincoat down and walked past it down the lawn to where he could see an open sweep of the inner harbor, with the high August sky arching and fishing boats and sailboats bobbing on their moorings.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s so like home!” he said, turning to her.

  “Really?”

  “I didn’t know anything in America looked like this. Whose boat is that?”

  “Mine.”

  “Can we go sailing?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, I want to see everything. All at the same time.”

  They hurried back to the house, Sydney humming with relief and happiness. So that was that. There were all kinds of wealth in this world, and Laurus’s was his talent and his merry spirit, and she never saw any sign in his long life that he envied anybody a material thing, or made distinctions among people based on anything but their moral grace. This, she was beginning to realize, was one very unusual man.

  Laurus was installed in Sydney’s childhood room, which had been “all redone” in the sense of repainted, and was now yellow instead of pink. The dolls were still where they’d always been. The bedside light was still a painted bunny holding a painted egg. Her stuffed animals were piled on her canopy bed.

  “In case you forgot to bring your own teddy bear,” said Sydney. Really, it was masterful. Would Candace put Mr. Christie in this room?

  Laurus said, “This was your room? I am so glad. When I go to sleep I will have your dreams.”

  “I hope the Doll League of Nations doesn’t give you nightmares.”

  He looked up at them. The German doll was very cheery and blond and Bavarian.

  “Is there a Czech one?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. Why, were you going to hide it from Brunhilde up there?”

  “Yes. One does what one can.”

  He turned to a picture in a painted frame, of a plump little girl in a very short dress, her sash practically at her armpits, her hair caught back in barrettes in a way Sydney always hated. She was wearing Mary Janes and little white socks and had an enormous scab on her knee. The nurse had taken this picture with her box Brownie, one day when Sydney—Annabee—had been dressed up for a birthday party.

  “Is this you?” He turned to her, smiling.

  “You can see why ‘The Ugly Duckling’ was my favorite story.”

  Laurus laughed. “It’s everyone’s favorite story. But not all of us turn out to be swans.”

  Sydney blushed.

  Sydney herself was installed in the room next to her mother’s, but there was certainly no point in calling it the “blue room.” It was starkly black and white lacquer with a lot of aluminum tubing to the furniture, the last word in moderne.

  Sydney changed into shorts and a blouse and went down to tell her mother they were going sailing.

  “How do you like your room?” Candace asked.

  “Lovely,” said Sydney, who detested it. “What happened in here?” They were in her father’s den, but the walls of mahogany bookshelves were gone, and something terrible had happened to the remaining woodwork.

  “Isn’t it charming? I had the wood pickled.”

  “Oh. Good. Well, we’ll see you later.”

  “Fine,” said Candace.

  When they came in from sailing, Candace was sitting in the Great Hall with a laden teatable before her.

  “There you are, lovey. Bring Mr. Moss in for a cup of tea, won’t you?”

  Sydney glanced at him sideways. She had been hoping they could slip out to the kitchen and make some coffee for themselves. But Laurus marched right over, wished Candace good afternoon, and took a chair next to her.

  “Cream or lemon?”

  “Lemon, two sugars, please.”

  “Sydney?”

  “Just plain. Strong.”

  “Did you have a nice sail, Mr. Moss?”

  “Blissful. It reminds me so much of home.”

  “And I hope you’ll have a sugar cookie. It’s Velma’s specialty. Perhaps you won’t like them, you’re used to such elaborate pastries at home, are you not?” Candace offered the silver-rimmed plate, piled with paper-thin cookies on a doily.

  Sydney saw the yawning pit open up between her mother and Laurus and prayed that he would see it and avoid it. But Laurus said, “Yes, but isn’t it funny, the whole world calls them Danish pastries, while we call them Vienna bread.”

  “Are you sure?”

&nbs
p; “Very sure. My father’s father was a baker.”

  Crash. There he went, headfirst into the trap. Now he was at the bottom of a pit with Candace towering over it, looking down.

  “Really!”

  “Yes, he made an almond bread you could not get anywhere else in Copenhagen. I miss it terribly. But these are delicious, he would have loved them.”

  “Have another.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your grandfather was a baker.” Candace pronounced this casually but it accompanied a steady gaze at Sydney, a look that said, Oh, of course, a baker. We entertain tradesmen all the time here at The Elms, by all means bring home a butcher or candlestick maker next. “And your father…is a teacher, I believe?”

  “Yes, he teaches history and geography at gymnasium. You would say ‘high school.’” Sydney was grateful that he had no way of knowing that her mother would not esteem this calling very much higher than baking. One might know a college professor, but schoolteachers were more like domestic servants.

  “And your mother is a—hausfrau? Is that what you call it?”

  “Husmoder, we would say. She keeps the house also but she’s a musician. A beautiful pianist.”

  “Ah. More tea, Sydney?”

  Sydney shook her head. She didn’t know how to tell Laurus this whole meal was a trap, that they were in as much danger as the children in Hansel and Gretel who ate the magic food and were turned into gingerbread. How soon could they get out of here?

  Laurus took more tea and Candace added hot water to her own cup as she said, “And you play the piano, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what kind of music do you play?”

  “Do you like classical music?” he asked, smiling.

  “Not very much,” she said, returning the smile.

  “Then,” he said with great sweetness, “you wouldn’t like it.”

  When they rose to leave her, Candace said airily, “Oh, and I’ve invited a few people in to dinner to meet Mr. Moss.”

  Sydney was dismayed. “Tonight …?”

  “Everyone is so eager to meet your…friend.”

  “You might have asked me.”

  “It will be very simple. The McClintocks, the Brittons, the Maitlands, and old Mrs. Smith Beedle. You’ll like her, Mr. Moss, she’s artistic too. Elise is coming, Sydney.”

  Oh, good. In her Man-bo-shay clothes, no doubt. “Are Gladdy and Tom?”

  “No, they’re not here. Just a family party, Mr. Moss. Don’t dress.”

  Sydney had suffered torments of anxiety and stage fright before her recital in May, but what she suffered as she took her bath and dressed for dinner that night was not a great deal less. Laurus would be humiliated and want nothing more to do with her. There had been no way to tell him that when her mother said, “Don’t dress,” what she meant was “Black tie, not white.” Sydney had no idea what clothes Laurus had with him but except when he was onstage, the only suit she’d seen him in was the one he’d worn on Christmas Eve and that was heavy wool. This would be a nightmare, he would blame her for it. He would leave. Her mother had planned this, to demonstrate how entirely ridiculous it was to expect refined people to socialize with foreign Jewish bakers’ families.

  They shouldn’t have come. She should have just stayed away from Dundee until Candace died. But there was no way to explain to Laurus why, and besides, she was such a moron she kept hoping one day something would change and she’d have a mother after all, so here they were.

  When she came downstairs at quarter to eight, she saw it was worse than she’d expected. Her mother was wearing her tiara.

  Sydney was wearing a long black silk skirt and a white silk blouse, the clothes in which she’d given her recital. She and her mother looked dressed for different parties. For different epochs, really. (The rest of Candace’s costume was lilac charmeuse, very soignée, and not at all appropriate for a matron’s figure.) Sydney indicated the tiara. “Is that what you mean by not dressing?”

  “Oh, you look fine, dear. No one will notice.”

  Before Sydney could answer, the Brittons arrived, and right behind them the Maitlands and the McClintocks came in together.

  “Don’t you look lovely,” said Bess Maitland to Candace, barely having looked at her. She turned to Sydney and folded her in an embrace. “Darling girl! We’ve missed you! You haven’t been to see us in months!”

  Elise, who did indeed look very stylish, came to hug her next.

  “Bonsoir, chérie, mais comme tu es belle!”

  “Really?”

  “You are blooming. Can you come to lunch tomorrow? I have ten million things to ask and tell.”

  “You know I have a…friend…with me?”

  “Of course, I want both of you.”

  But Sydney’s eyes were on the door. Here was Laurus, having had a nap, with his hair still wet from the shower…perfectly turned out in a dinner jacket and black tie. Sydney felt a wave of astonishment. Was he some sort of magician? That he was at home in any situation? She watched as he came straight to his hostess and greeted her, and it seemed to Sydney that her mother was nonplussed. Bakers’ children who traveled with proper dinner clothes? Rather well tailored at that?

  Before she could say anything, Bess Maitland went to him. She took his hand in both of hers and said, “But aren’t you Laurus Moss?”

  He smiled and gave a small bow.

  “We heard you play this winter in New York! Gordon, look, it’s Laurus Moss! Sydney, dear, is this the friend you’ve brought us? What an amazing girl you are.” Now Gordon Maitland was shaking his hand and mentioning the Grieg concerto and Elise had joined them. Bess had taken her houseguest right away from Candace and was telling the McClintocks what luck it was to have him here, when Mrs. Amelia Smith Beedle arrived.

  Candace went to meet her guest of honor, who was in her late eighties and tonight dressed entirely in mint green, including a dirty feather boa. She was carrying a very small dachshund which she handed to Candace.

  “How good of you to come, Mrs. Beedle.”

  “Thank you for saying so. Now which of these ladies is my hostess?” Mrs. Beedle steamed past her and into the fray. “Good evening, so nice to see you, Amelia Smith Beedle.”

  “It’s Bess Maitland, Amelia, you remember we had lunch together yesterday.”

  “We did?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did we have?”

  “Lobster Newburg. You remember Gordon…”

  Bess took her on around the circle helping her to greet the other guests. It was apparent that she had gone well beyond “artistic” into another state altogether and that her presence at the table was not likely to be quite the social coup Candace had planned.

  The final guest arrived: Candace’s Bachelor Beau, Norris Cummings.

  “You’re looking lovely as ever, dear lady,” he said to Candace. She thanked him, desperate to get this evening back on track, and hustled him toward the group. As he joined the others, Candace handed the dachshund to the waitress and said, “Will you please take this to the kitchen and feed it or something, and tell Cook we are ready to go in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The second waitress came forward with a small sherry glass on a tray, with a linen napkin.

  “Your usual, Mr. Cummings.”

  “Thank you, Brenda.”

  He took a sip to make sure it was mostly gin, then gave her a wink. He went on toward the rest of the guests.

  Elise came forward and greeted him. Dr. McClintock patted his shoulder and said, “That was a good match this afternoon. You gave me a run for my money.”

  “Good evening, Colin. So nice to see you, Molly.”

  Mrs. Beedle, who was sitting in a chair now and fretfully looking for something, looked up at Norris Cummings making toward her and exclaimed loudly, “Why, here’s old Flannel Mouth!”

  Norris stopped in his tracks, his hand extended. Candace whisked in. “Mrs. Beedle, I believe we are served, if yo
u’re ready. Dr. M., would you take Mrs. Beedle in?” She was suddenly very cross that she hadn’t placed Mrs. Beedle beside Mr. Moss, but she hadn’t and now it was too late. Very unfortunately, she now saw, she had put her at the foot of the table between Colin McClintock and Norris Cummings. Who was probably in for a very long evening.

  Laurus talked over the vichyssoise to Candace. She inquired in tedious detail about the trip from New York: Was he fond of train travel? Yes. Was she? Not very much. Did he enjoy the scenery? It was very interesting. Was she fond of scenery? She felt it was better seen from an automobile. Did he drive? Yes.

  When the fillet of sole was served, he was able to turn to Mrs. Maitland.

  “You’re from Denmark, Mr. Moss?”

  “Please call me Laurus, Mrs. Maitland.”

  “Thank you, I’d like to, and I am Bess. Now please tell me, I’m so distressed about Czechoslovakia. Do you know Prague?”

  “Very well. I love it.”

  “I do too, I think it’s as beautiful as Paris. How can President Hacha have signed away his lovely country?”

  “I’m told Hitler demanded they meet at one in the morning,” Laurus said.

  “Not really.”

  “Knowing Hacha is an old man, with a heart condition. They gave him the papers dissolving the country and told him they’d keep him there until he signed. If he didn’t, they’d begin bombing Prague at dawn.”

  Bess sat back in her chair. “Thugs.”

  “Yes.”

  “Howard—did you hear what Laurus is telling me?”

  Howard Britton, on the other side of Candace, broke off his conversation with her to answer, which gave Candace no choice but to join in as well. Trying to find a way to be part of it, she found an opening in which to say, “You must be awfully glad you’re over here just now, Mr. Moss. I’ve heard your people are having a terrible time in Austria.”