by Ann Ripley
Bill was looking up at her now, beckoning her with an index finger. Louise walked slowly down the stairs. By the time she reached the marble floor of the foyer, she had been swept back a couple of centuries to when this house was first built, and ladies descended those stairs in long gowns.
Her husband’s blue eyes were filled with merriment. “I saw that—walking like a grand lady down that staircase.”
“Just getting in the historical mood,” she said, tucking her arm in his. “Where’s Nora?”
“Don’t worry about Nora. She’s come and gone.”
“With Janie and Chris?”
“No, she’s wandering the grounds with someone else. She should have waited, though, because it turns out those two women in the library”—he nodded to the open door of the large room where Sandy Post and Grace Cooley stood together, examining a book—“are real poetry buffs. They took a course in it together, apparently. Sandy’s college career was stuffed in between spasmodic Olympic training and international travel. Grace takes a college course now and then, she informs me—and thus the two did-meet. They’re deep into—you’ll never believe it—German Romantic poetry.”
He opened his eyes wider, and she could tell something funny was coming next. “Like, you know,” he said, in an imitation of Sandy Post’s annoying mode of speech, “Goethe’s influence on the poetry of Novalis, Goethe’s metaphoric use of the colors blue and yellow—and how prescient that was, Novalis’ influence on the work of Coleridge, and so on and so on.” He shrugged. “What’s more, they seem to know what they’re talking about.”
“I’m more familiar with the British Romantics.”
“So is almost everyone,” said her husband. He nodded his head toward the library. “People tend to look at German literature and art—even that genius, Goethe—through the lens of two world wars and Nazism; it doesn’t do much for their luster. Keats and crowd are a heck of a lot more popular—though Grace Cooley told me that Novalis is gaining popularity, largely due to a book that’s come out about his life.”
Louise smiled at the inadvertent history lesson and they wandered out the front door. In the front yard, she paused to drink in the pungent smell of the tall hemlocks. “You know, this place is quintessential New England,” she said, realizing as soon as she said it that she would release the historian in him again.
“Very true. The Beechers were its most famous residents, of course. Righteous, God-fearing reformers. Lyman Beecher was the pastor of the Congregational Church here, and Congregational churches really kicked booty—I mean, they really ran things: helped make the laws, wrote the school curriculum, and acted as moral arbiters for everyone.”
“So I’ve learned.”
“And Lyman had notable children: Harriet Beecher Stowe, who helped turn the country against slavery when she published Uncle Tom’s Cabin. A daughter who was a well-known educator. Son Henry, the preacher, who sent guns, hidden in shipments of Bibles, to the abolitionists in Kansas.”
“Yes—but isn’t there a lurid story about Henry Beecher and—”
“Victoria Woodhull, the feminist. If you call being tried for adultery lurid, yes. It was probably the trial of the century back then. The funny thing is that it didn’t hurt Henry’s reputation very much. Now, Woodhull herself didn’t believe in marriage; she brought the case against Beecher just to prove a point, because she thought adultery was quite all right. Reminds me a little of—” He cocked his head toward the grounds beyond the mansion.
“Nora?”
“Yeah. Nora. We both know she doesn’t always take her marriage vows seriously.”
“And that’s a problem for me, Bill. It bothers me that Janie admires a woman like that.” She clutched his arm more tightly. “Though I have come to love Nora dearly, don’t think that I don’t…”
“I know,” he said, eyebrows arching, “just like Jesus loved Mary Magdalene.”
“Oh, Bill, she’s hardly a Mary Magdalene …”
“All the easier to forgive her, huh? Well, don’t worry about Janie. Both she and Chris understand his mother, and that doesn’t mean they approve.”
She looked up at him. “How on earth did you know that?”
He tried not to look smug. “The thing you have to remember is that I’ve had long talks with our daughter, too— until she recently began not wanting to have long talks. We discussed this very thing.” He tossed another glance over his shoulder. “By the way, Nora and the professor just disappeared down that back hill.”
“The professor? She went off with that professor? Isn’t the horse barn back there?”
“They’re only walking, Louise. Anyway, she’s a big girl, and she’s discreet.” A grin broke over his face. “That means they’ll close the barn door first.”
Her tone was rebuking. “Don’t tease me.”
“Then stop worrying: This is supposed to be a vacation. I’m hoping you’ll get into the romantic spirit of this place. Then, we can get Janie and Chris to take off some evening and you and I will have a few hours alone in your bedroom.”
“Hours?”
“If there aren’t hours, I’ll take minutes—say fifteen?”
She laughed and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Hardly long enough, my dear, to enjoy your carnal charms, but I suppose we could manage it.”
“And no more fussing,” he told her. “I saw you conjuring up dark thoughts when you stood there with Jim Cooley and saw that loosened stair rod.”
“You believe that woman’s fall was just an accident.”
“My dear, I sincerely hope so or this weekend isn’t going to be fun for either one of us. Now let’s do a little exploring, ourselves. I can hear the river from here, and I want to see if it’s as good as it sounds.”
Bells, Burbles, and Rustles; The Sound a Garden Makes
THERE IS A YEAR-ROUND RHYTHM TO A garden. In springtime, it is filled with promise, as whorls and spikes of leaves in colors from chartreuse to deep red emerge from the ground. In summer, it is as bright as the palette of an artist, with flowers in full-blown color. It remains a continued comfort in the fall as hues slowly fade; seed heads and flower heads in peach and tan and jet black are echoes of the garden’s former splendor. And then winter comes: Baby evergreens, red and yellow dogwood, the grays of Artemisia, Eryngium, and Santolina, and the naked arms of woody perennials give it form and beauty.
But what is missing from this garden picture? Something not seen, but heard. For there is another quality needed in a garden that few of us think about. That is, the sound of the garden. Through all four seasons, sounds can give our garden a charm that will draw us to it like a magnet.
The chirping of birds, the persistent call of the whippoorwill, the gentle hum of the bees, and the flutter of hummingbird wings are sounds we delight to hear when we garden in summer. And we hear the plants themselves. The rattle of the leaves of the aspen and the cottonwood. The sighing of the pines. The restless agitation of the bamboo branches. The gossipy chatter of the low-slung sedge—and even the rustling of seedpods we leave behind in fall.
When nature’s helpers have fled for the winter and noisy leaves have fallen from the trees, we can still create sound. One way is to install a canvas shade on the porch. When it catches breezes, the flapping noise is reminiscent of a ship’s sail fluttering in the wind. Such a shade can stay out through the year. Care should be taken to anchor it at the bottom so that it does not wear unduly.
Antique cowbells hanging on the patio or garden fence are another sound-maker, but cowbells are hard to come by. Chimes are better: They have long been at home in the garden. Some people are content with a cheap set of bells that clang pleasurably when shaken. Relatively new are wood-crowned sets of chimes available in tones from the massive base set costing several hundred dollars to a small set ringing in the highest registers for less than thirty dollars. Kept under the cover of a porch, these chimes can stay outside and herald changes in the weather. Even fancier are cast-brass “wind” bell
s. They are mounted on a stone base and brave the weather, catching the rain in their neat, round little bell cups.
Some prefer old-fashioned models: wooden wind chimes, funky-looking hanging shells, or glass chimes.
But the wind does not always blow and fill our desire for constant garden sound. Only falling water, in either a fountain or waterfall, can do that. Its sound is contentment itself, and on the quietest day, the noise of water falling can mask the clamor of passing autos and make us think we’re in a place far removed from urban life. Both the height of the fall, its volume, and what it strikes—stone, wood, or water—will affect its pitch and resonance. Even the smallest homeowner-created fountain, however, will supply a pleasant cacophony.
Circulating fountains can be built rather simply and housed in a traditional fountain, in a large rock that has been drilled out to hold the fountain-head, or in a custom- or home-built backyard waterfall/pool. For about five hundred dollars, the gardener can buy a motor, PVC to line the pool, and enough rock to fashion a six-foot-long water pool with small recirculating falls at the end. Ideally, this and any other water feature should be incorporated in the original garden design, but life is not always programmed so neatly. It is quite easy to add fountains and small waterfalls and have them seem to have been there forever. It involves the art of joinery, in which we either integrate the different garden materials, or contrast them. To integrate a natural little waterfall, for instance, a small berm could be constructed near the existing garden; the waterfall would emerge out of the side of this small hill. Graceful cascades of ornamental grass are excellent for naturalizing the area around a water feature.
Though some people construct larger fountains and waterfalls, this size would overpower the average yard. A small one is enough. With it, we can enter a sounding garden whose watery clatter shuts out the noises of the everyday world.
Chapter 5
“IT NEVER HURTS FOR A PLACE LIKE THIS to serve good food,” said Chris, shoving his tall, rangy frame back from the table on the veranda.
“That’s the understatement of the week,” snapped Jeffrey Freeling. “This food is four stars according to The New York Times.”
Bill, ever the peacemaker, said, “I didn’t know that, but I’d gladly have I thrown my two cents’ worth of commendations in, if the kitchen hadn’t already heard them from the critics.”
The professor, having escorted Nora on a two-hour journey up and down the hills of the property, had joined their party for dinner, making it six. He was an aloof man, distracted and almost crabby. Louise could see her husband was doing his best to extricate what civility he could from the noted academic.
But the atmosphere was certainly propitious: Newly arrived clouds were flying picturesquely over a bright moon in the New England sky, giving a sense of electric movement in the firmament. Down on the veranda, handsome hurricane lamps cast romantic shadows on baskets overflowing with blooms in mauve and purple, dramatically accented with blue-leaved, scarlet-flowered “Queen of the Nile” nasturtiums. In the background, Chopin preludes could be heard.
It was definitely the people who were the problem. There were three tables of six, plus a dozen or so smaller tables for outside dinner guests. By virtue of their late arrival, Mark and Sandy Post, Rod and Dorothy Gasparra, and Bebe Hollowell were forced to sit together at a larger table. The third table was occupied with Barbara Seymour’s relatives and their friends: the Cooleys, Storms, and Landrys.
Though all was peaceful on the surface, Louise noticed that each group seemed edgy. Bebe Hollowell, like all the women, was dressed up, wearing an attractive sleeveless white dress to emphasize her dark tan. Unfortunately, from the moment she sat down, she overwhelmed the conversation at her table, talking primarily about her deceased husband, Ernie. The tension of the Posts and the Gasparras was evident. Bebe appeared to be everyone’s cross to bear this weekend—both her excessive talking and her cigarettes.
Jim Cooley had a stern look on his face which seemed to dampen conversation at his table, Louise noted. But while Frank and Fiona Storm, as well as Stephanie and Neil Landry, were clearly subdued by Jim’s mood, Jim’s frail-looking wife rose to the occasion, quietly carrying the conversation on her own. And she was talking, if Louise was hearing right, about flower metaphors in poetry. “… The blue flower, for instance, was the symbol of yearning in German Romantic literature,” Louise overheard her say.
Louise was sure the reason for Jim’s bad humor was the presence of the skulking Neil Landry, who was joining the group for the first time since Barbara Seymour fell down the staircase.
Sighing, Louise took another bite of the scrumptious meal. Even at their own table, Dr. Freeling’s formal manner discouraged a free flow of conversation and squelched the usually talkative Janie and Chris.
When Louise questioned him about his projects in plant genetic engineering, the scientist would touch only on generalities. “Mrs. Eldridge,” he told her quietly, raising a graceful hand to adjust his glasses, “I am a scientist. Surely you can’t expect me to reveal what’s going on in our laboratories. There are some projects to alter major crops, and thus deeply impact the American economy. It’s premature, and indiscreet, to talk about them, since it can affect all sorts of things …”
“… even crop futures, I suppose,” she said breezily. “It’s funny how forthcoming a business like Monsanto Chemicals will be: It’s heavily into this field. I’m just anxious to do a program on it for my show, and I can’t do it without specifics.”
Freeling smiled in what Louise thought was a rather supercilious way. “I’m sure that Monsanto will tell you everything you need to know.”
“And that implies that your work is so secret that you can’t even mention it.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” he said, and then turned to Nora, who was sitting to his right. She had on a show-stopping red silk dress. As if to be sure he was rid of the inquiring busy-body, Freeling bent deliberately toward Nora and asked her more about her poetry.
Louise had seldom felt so rebuffed.
Janie had drifted away from the dinner table, but now she returned, swinging back into her chair with blond hair and light pleated skirt twirling after her. Louise noticed she had been talking to the personable young employee, Teddy, who, it turned out, ran the dining room. He made it a point to introduce himself fully—first name and last. Teddy Horton. This cowlick-haired individual looked as if he should be munching on a hayseed: He was straight out of a Norman Rockwell magazine cover. Yet he had handled the crowd with the panache of a Parisian maître d’hôtel. Now, he followed Janie’s movements with his eyes, and Louise suspected that it was a case of love at first sight.
“Guess what, folks?” Janie told them. “After dessert and coffee, there’s going to be dancing, right out here in the evening air.”
“Good,” said Freeling. “I like to dance.” Ah, thought Louise, the man has an Achilles’ heel, a genuine human weakness: He likes to dance.
The professor also had his eye on Janie, not covetously, but as if she were the image of someone he knew. Louise suspected he was the kind of man who had had a wife who died young, rather like one of the great tragic figures in literature whose true love died of tuberculosis.
Yet if she was wrong and the man was a bachelor, she had certainly caught a glimmer of why: Though attractive enough, Freeling had an irksome quality about him. It was almost as if he wanted her to dislike him. Conversely, he was finally beginning to open up to the others, especially Bill and Chris. Maybe he was more comfortable talking to men—but if so, why had he spent two hours with Nora?
As the twilight deepened, the tables were cleared and pushed to the side. Inside the large adjacent sunroom, someone turned on 1940’s music that reminded Louise of World War II movies. She could hardly imagine the impact of that war, but her mother had told her how the music had somehow unified people emotionally. Through multiple speakers the songs flowed out to them: “I Had the Craziest Dream,” “Don’t Get A
round Much Anymore,” “Sentimental Journey,” and “Lili Marlene.” The music worked its magic on her, too, bringing tears to her eyes.
“Aha,” noted her observant husband, “the music’s got to you.”
She clutched his hand. “I feel a great need to kiss you.” And she leaned over and pressed her lips gently to his. But their romantic moment was interrupted by a clamor of greetings at the next table. Barbara Seymour had arrived to join her family group. The guests gave a little round of applause as the tall woman entered the porch area, wearing a gleaming blue taffeta dress that was another stroke of good fashion sense for a woman playing the part of historical dame.
“This is a little sick, isn’t it?” Louise murmured to her husband.
“Sick—why?”
“To clap for her. It’s as if we’re celebrating—as if Barbara is some kind of Evel Knievel. She didn’t cavort through the air off those stairs for our pleasure.”
“Honey, that’s not it: Everyone is happy because she’s okay.”
As the mansion owner sat down with her family, she gave an especially warm wave to the day’s heroes, Chris and Janie. Louise noticed Neil soon excused himself from the table, after appearing to have a problem looking the matriarch in the eye. He hurried down the stairs of the veranda and disappeared into the cricket-loud night. Shortly after this quick departure, the Storms left the family table and joined her and Bill. Quite right, Louise thought: That family needs to talk things over.
The music swelled, and the action began. The professor snared the lady in red and led her to the dance floor. Soon they were locked in an embrace, moving slowly to “These Foolish Things.” Janie and Chris joined them there, awkward, but enjoying the close bodily contact. In the shadows, Louise could see the earnest Teddy, standing with an arm hooked snugly around a veranda pillar, as if he wished it were Janie. His eyes were riveted on the girl; he might have been dying for a dance, but he knew it wasn’t appropriate. She was beyond his reach. The princess and the commoner.
