by Ruth Trippy
He laughed. “Said like a true bit of femininity. My first sighting of the rodent—when I moved west—I thought it must be a rat. Dusk had fallen and it was rather hard to see. Its body was about ten inches long and his tail the same.”
“Twenty inches! But it does sound like something my brothers would handle with aplomb. Isn’t that what brothers are for?”
“Charmingly put,” he said in an undertone, then more loudly, “Fortunately, in due time I discovered my visitor was a muskrat, which seemed rather more intriguing than frightening.”
Celia glanced at her hostess. Mrs. Harrod had asked Mrs. Lyons a question about the Chinese porcelain and they had become engrossed in their own conversation. She turned to the uncle and even though she tried to bring up more serious topics, he very determinedly kept the conversation on light, provocative fare. Finally, she gave up and returned his jests with her own. He chuckled. “My dear. You are delightful. I will have to write Edward and tell him so.”
After that, conversation became general, shared amongst the four of them. Mrs. Harrod commented on the portraits adorning the walls. “Oh, we have our requisite ancestor who came over with the Mayflower,” Uncle Herbert quipped. “That dour-looking fellow over the buffet.” He turned to his sister. “But I forget, he was from your side of the family, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Lyons directed her gaze at Mrs. Harrod. “Herbert treats our ancestors rather lightly.”
“But, of course, one cannot give them too much reverence,” he said.
Mrs. Lyons glanced at him with a combination of disapproval and affection, but she proceeded to tell about the other Lyons forbears. After the last one had been introduced, Uncle Herbert leaned over to Celia. “The more recent family pictures are in the parlor. You must see the one of Edward when he was younger.”
After coffee and dessert, they did just that. While Mrs. Lyons led Mrs. Harrod out of the dining room to explain the history behind additional porcelain in the drawing room, Uncle Herbert detoured Celia to the family parlor. A rose silk-draped table covered with photos sat at one end of the divan. “Here, this is the one I want you to see.” He held up a framed picture of a beardless young man with high cheekbones and a sensitive mouth. Idealism shone from his eyes. Celia startled. Without his beard, Mr. Lyons was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. A curious little feeling welled up within her. She found herself staring at the picture, wanting to commit it to memory.
“You are speechless, Miss Thatcher.”
She looked up at the uncle. He smiled knowingly.
She tried to make her voice noncommittal. “If you saw your nephew today, I believe his eyes would show a more guarded look.”
“But your eyes, they are shining like the proverbial stars, my dear.” He put down the picture. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?” He looked at her again. “And has he played the devil?”
“What do you mean?”
His voice lowered confidentially. “I refer to his deceased wife, of course. Do you know anything of that affair?”
She looked at him a long moment. “Only that she died a sad death. At a young age.”
“Yes.” He paused. “This is a rather difficult question for me to ask, but as a family member I feel I must know. Do you have any idea if Edward was responsible in any way?”
Celia’s hand fluttered to the brooch at the throat of her high-necked dress. “There are rumors, but I know nothing of substance. I am new to the community. And you know, in a small town the least bit of gossip can fan itself into fact.”
“Just so.” His lips pursed. “But I’ve never been satisfied on that score. Edward was an only child, and only children can be rather self-absorbed. And she being an only child, as well, it didn’t surprise me that the marriage turned out to be an unhappy one. But for it to end as it did!”
He cleared his throat. “But enough of that.” He held out his arm to escort Celia. “If Edward doesn’t enter the lists for your hand, I will. You are too delightful to lose to someone else’s family.” A gleam brightened his eye. “Besides, we need a Beauty among our staid and dreary wall of family portraits. Now, my dear, shall we join the others?”
Celia removed the extra pillow from behind her and nestled under the bedcovers. That Uncle Herbert was a character. She bubbled up with laughter at the remembrance. Hopefully, she could sleep. The day had certainly been thought provoking.
16
The train pulled out of Boston, its whistle sounding distant and muffled from within the Pullman car’s maroon and gold fitted interior. Celia looked out the window to see Charles walking and then jogging alongside. He threw a final, flamboyant kiss.
Mrs. Harrod turned in her seat to see the last of her son. “Just like Charles! He’s terribly engaging. Don’t you think so, Celia?”
“He is one of the most charming men of my acquaintance. I believe he has some of his mother in him.”
Mrs. Harrod laughed. “You know how to curry favor. Shameless, girl!”
Celia smiled and settled back in her large, luxurious seat. She looked out the window for a minute, then glanced at Mrs. Harrod poking about in her satchel. That dear lady had spared no expense for this trip, and Celia appreciated it more than her friend could ever know. The Harrods might be accustomed to such things, but for Celia, everything was new and exciting—even her clothing. Today, she was dressed in a smoke gray traveling suit with onyx buttons and a matching plumed hat. Another of Mrs. Harrod’s castoffs that no longer suited her, or so she said. The woman was as generous as she was charming. Celia hoped she would be as open-handed, if ever in a position to do so.
She gazed at the luxurious compartment and thought back to Christmas. On the train from home to the Chestleys, she had come upon Mr. Lyons, sitting in coach. She had wondered about it at the time, thinking he would surely travel in first class, but then had thought no more of it. But now, after seeing his home in Boston, she knew beyond a doubt that coach would not have been his usual accommodation.
He had been sitting, apparently perfectly content, reading a book when she walked down the aisle. She remembered him rising with alacrity, offering a seat beside him. Maybe it was Jack with her, the introductions and all, that had occupied her thoughts and made her so unaware of this oddity. No, he certainly would not have been riding in coach. Not with his home, his former home, on Louisburg Square. He must have purposely sat there so as not to miss her.
How kind and gentlemanly of him. It bespoke warmth of friendship on his part. A friendship she now gladly acknowledged to be one of her most precious gifts. She would say this despite his lack of belief in God, despite the dark mystery that surrounded his wife’s death. Indeed, to think of him sitting in coach on that hard bench when he could have been sitting here, spoke the depth of his regard, his willingness to sacrifice—
Mrs. Harrod straightened in her seat. “I’ve decided to read a book to while away the time. See, I am taking my cue from you. You already have yours. But first,” she dropped the book on her lap, “tell me what you thought of our time in Boston.”
“There’s so much to tell.”
“Start with your overall impression.”
“Well, I feel as if I’ve had a ‘coming out.’ ” Celia clapped her hands twice, quietly, so as not to attract too much attention. “Just like the girls from fine families in Boston who have a cotillion. Or like a young woman in Regency England coming out into society with all the new dresses, parties, and such. Those girls couldn’t have felt more special than I do now. The clothes you’ve given me, Mrs. Harrod! And this wonderful trip seeing the sights with Charles.” She warmed to her topic. “Going to dinner with the two of you. Taking in the play. All of it. I feel older, more experienced, not so much a girl. More like a woman.”
“I accomplished all that? How delightful! I wanted you to have a wonderful time, but had no idea all this was taking place.”
“Oh, yes.” Celia turned slightly to give her friend her full attention. “But enough about m
e. What were some of your favorite times?”
“Well, shopping would have to be first. Then spending time with Charles and seeing how special he thinks you.” She poked a finger on Celia’s arm. “And to actually have an invitation to Louisburg Square. I’ve always wondered what the inside of those homes looked like. Now I feel I’ve quite arrived. Mr. Lyons—Edward—was most gracious to arrange it.”
Celia’s mind flitted to the luncheon. As Charles had said, the home was ancestral, as evidenced by all those portraits. Mrs. Lyons took an obvious pride in her heritage, for it was her family that had come over with the Mayflower. Her husband’s family had crossed later, and he being a maritime lawyer had bought all the beautiful Chinese porcelains.
Mrs. Harrod continued, “I got along famously with Mrs. Lyons. And you seemed to do well with Uncle Herbert.”
“I enjoyed meeting him.” Celia felt herself glow. Uncle Herbert was absolutely breezy compared to Mrs. Lyons.
“What did he show you in the parlor? I didn’t say anything at the time, but you had such a look on your face.”
“I did? He just showed me a picture of his nephew when he was younger.”
“Edward as a boy?”
“No, as a young man, but clean-shaven.”
“Without his beard? Now that would be interesting.”
It certainly had been interesting. Celia had noticed every detail. The wavy brown hair, the high cheekbones, the lips, the light shining from his eyes, and committed it all to memory.
As she and Uncle Herbert walked out of the family parlor, he had nearly proposed, or hinted that his nephew should. Of course, he was joking, but how absolutely feminine and attractive the old gentleman had made her feel. Just the way a girl—any woman—would want to.
She arched her back and looked up at the beautifully decorated ceiling. How wonderful she felt.
Mr. and Mrs. Chestley stood on the station platform; Celia saw them scanning each window looking eagerly for her. After all the new places and adventures, how nice to see home folks.
“Oh, there’s Mrs. Adams,” Mrs. Harrod said. “My husband wired me in Boston that he couldn’t meet me. Said Mrs. Adams had volunteered to come. But Hatfield is with her. He’ll take care of everything.”
Mrs. Harrod lightly grasped Celia’s arm. “Let’s be extra nice to her. The poor dear was terribly disappointed to learn I hadn’t invited her to accompany us to Boston. Said she’d had given her eye teeth to see Mr. Lyons’s home. I believe she’s interested in him.”
Celia looked at Mrs. Harrod, questioningly.
“Well, you know, they are about the same age. And both from a similar social strata—they might do very well together. I had thought of inviting her, but you know after Mrs. Lyons invited us to lunch, I just didn’t feel right asking her.” Mrs. Harrod released her arm. “But I will be sure to tell her every detail.”
Stepping off the train, Celia glanced at Mrs. Adams before Mrs. Chestley folded her to her ample bosom.
“Dear, it’s so good to see you again. I would hardly dare embrace such a sophisticated-looking lady, but I know it’s our dear Celia. I was telling Mr. Chestley how empty the house felt with you away.”
“Let me take your valise,” Mr. Chestley said, beaming.
Mrs. Adams greeted Celia, but her eyes belied the welcome. “Miss Thatcher, you look quite the—”
“For Charles, you know,” Mrs. Harrod said in an undertone, “for Charles. I’ll tell you all about it.” Then she turned to Celia. “Let me hug you goodbye. We did have an absolutely delightful time, didn’t we?”
When Celia entered the Chestley home with the older couple hovering over her, she couldn’t help but see how very modest it was in comparison to all she’d seen in Boston. Yet how comforting as well. She looked forward to her own little room. It might be rather plain, but it provided that quiet solitude she often craved.
“We’re having my special potato soup for supper,” Mrs. Chestley said. “I know it’s a favorite, and I want you to feel as if you are coming home.”
“I do!”
“Well, change your clothes. No, don’t worry about helping with supper tonight. Mr. Chestley said he would. You are the guest of honor. While we eat, you can tell us all about your trip.” She reached out her arms to give Celia a spontaneous hug. “Oh, and I almost forgot, you have a letter. I put it on your dresser.” Mrs. Chestley’s eyes twinkled up into hers.
“I’ll change my travel outfit directly.” Celia hugged Mrs. Chestley hard in return.
As soon as Celia entered her room, she walked to the dresser. She looked at the name on the return address: J. Milford. Jack! What did he have to say? She dropped into the chair near the window and opened the envelope. Was it what she hoped? Yes, he had written asking permission to visit. He’d finally taken her up on her invitation. How delightful. He mentioned a date two weeks hence. So that’s what made Mrs. Chestley’s eyes twinkle. Celia smiled. From the first, Jack had had the inside track with Mrs. Chestley. Dear Jack. There was nothing like home folks.
Supper was a cozy affair. Mrs. Chestley insisted Celia swallow a few mouthfuls before telling them anything. “You must get up your strength, dear. Traveling can be so tiring.”
If the Chestleys had seen how Mrs. Harrod traveled in such comfort and luxury, they would have a hard time believing travel was tiring.
Her homecoming wouldn’t have been complete without seeing Mr. Lyons. He came to the bookstore the very next day, earlier than usual. When he came through the door, Celia looked up. But it was like seeing him through new eyes. Was Mrs. Adams interested in him?
“Ah, the traveler has returned,” he said, holding out both hands in greeting. She reciprocated by extending hers. He took them warmly, gently in his. “Welcome home.” He held them a moment longer before releasing them. “I take it Boston was all you hoped.”
“More than I hoped. One of the highlights was time spent in your home. It was most thoughtful of you to arrange a visit.”
“I trust Mother was well.”
“She was. And very proper, of course. I would have felt overwhelmed, but for someone present who blurred the lines of propriety.” When he looked at her expectantly, she tipped her head and whispered, “Uncle Herbert.”
“Ha!” He laughed. “I heard he was to arrive around the time of your visit. You have met the family maverick.”
“If Uncle Herbert hadn’t been there and taken me under his wing, I would have been quite overcome. Louisburg Square, no less!”
“Mother is proud of the family. I’m sure you were given a tour of the family portraits. But I hope she didn’t intimidate you.”
“She and Mrs. Harrod got along very well together, and Uncle Herbert took it upon himself to entertain me, telling about his life out west.”
“I’ve heard many of his tales. Some of them rather tall. I hope he didn’t say or do anything to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh no. In fact, he was an excellent host.” She paused. “One thing was quite interesting. He did show me a picture of you when you were younger.”
The corner of Mr. Lyons’s mouth twitched. “Ah, that must have been before I had a beard. What did you think of it?”
“It was—surprising.” She looked at him a long moment. Yes, she could see the young man in him, even now. And better yet, his eyes were more like those of the picture, less guarded than when she’d first met him.
“So did you think—anything in particular?”
A bubble of laughter rose. “Oh! I could just imagine all the females dangling after you.”
“That uncle of mine. He usually has some mischief up his sleeve.”
She laughed outright at that.
“What made you laugh?” he asked.
“When we were speaking of the family portraits he said I would make a lovely addition to the gallery.”
“That would add some interest. The group is rather sober, isn’t it? Did he propose how to accomplish that?”
“He s
aid he would offer for my hand, but thought a younger man would do better.”
“The old codger.”
“I was flattered. Of course, I knew he was joking. By the way, he said to give you his regards.”
“Thank you. Well, it sounds as if you survived Uncle Herbert. Now, how did you like Boston’s Athenaeum?”
“It was beautiful! I couldn’t believe all the books. And the paintings on the walls. I felt like I was in a hallowed sanctum. Your friend who gave us a guided tour said that Emerson, Hawthorne, and Whitman did their research there. Think of it!”
“Ah, now I see you are developing a proper respect for Emerson. I dislike reminding you how little you thought of him when we first met.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “our discussion of his Reliance.”
“I grant you, some people think he’s rather progressive with his transcendental thinking. But I predict he will influence the way men think for decades to come.”
Celia looked at him quizzically. “How would you characterize the Transcendentalists?”
“In simplest terms,” he said, “they are idealists. They believe, along with Kant and Plato, there are truths that dawn on a person from intuition rather than from our senses such as sight, touch, hearing.” His eyes questioned her, apparently assessing whether he should continue. She nodded enthusiastically. He smiled. “I know many literary critics maintain Emerson’s 1836 work Nature as the founding document of Transcendentalism, but the Rev. William Ellery Channing, a Unitarian, preached a sermon, ‘Likeness to God,’ that started people thinking even earlier. In it, he said there is a single spiritual entity present in all of us—what Emerson later called the Oversoul—which is outside ourselves and yet part of us. Channing said the best place to study and observe this spiritual unity was in nature.”
“You said the sermon was titled ‘Likeness to God’? So where does God’s Word come in all this?”
“I don’t know that it does.”
“Now that stands to reason,” she quipped, “trying to discover God without reference to His personal Word about Himself.”
