One of the bright, bejeweled figures materialized in the doorway and stood still, and Ty’s mechanical smile of welcome turned genuine.
“Aha!” Abbey crossed to where he was standing on the hearth rug before the marble fireplace. But by the time she reached him, her laughing face had sobered. “Ty?” She put her hand on his sleeve. “Oh, dear. I can see that this wasn’t quite as delightful a surprise as we’d hoped.”
Instead of commenting on that one way or the other, he said, “You’ve grown so beautiful, Abbey.” Not to distract her, but because it was true.
Her lovely brown eyes warmed with affection. “And you’ve gotten even handsomer. I’d been terrified you’d come home looking the way you did the last time, but instead you’re tan and robust—in fact, I’ve never seen you looking so well. And Del,” she added meaningfully, “agrees with me.”
He glanced behind her toward the crowded drawing room. If Adele was out there, he couldn’t see her. He shrugged and took a sip of his drink.
Abbey’s hand on his arm squeezed softly. “Ty?”
“Hm?”
“How are you, really?”
Her low voice claimed his full attention. He stared at her for a long, telling moment, debating how to answer.
“If I’m wrong, just ignore me, but I can’t help feeling something’s not quite right with you. Something’s making you sad.”
“You just told me how well I look,” he protested lightly.
“Under that.” She didn’t return his poor excuse for a smile. “I can’t think what it could be. I know it makes you cringe, but Mother’s right when she says you’ve come home a hero. What you accomplished in Havana must make you feel so proud.”
“Satisfied, yes.”
“And you’re glad about your new job in Washington?”
“Very glad. I can’t wait to get started.” He ought to say more, keep nattering about anything; this was his chance to divert her. But with Abbey, he didn’t have the will to pretend.
So she asked straight out, “Then what is it?” She ducked her head. “I’m sorry, you needn’t tell me, of course. But if you ever want—”
“I’ve lost something, Ab,” he blurted out in a murmur. “A part of myself I’d just found. It was the best part, and I’m grieving for it. ”That sounded lugubrious to him. He made a face at his drink and set it on the mantel.
Without a word, she took his elbow and turned with him to face the fire, their backs to the room, shoulders touching. He felt a mixture of relief and surprise at himself, for in the past he’d rarely confided anything truly important to his sister. To any woman, for that matter. Except one.
Abbey whispered, “How can I help you?”
“You can’t,” he said gently. “I’ve let something slip away. It’s finished; it can’t be retrieved.”
“What, Ty? What is it?”
He shook his head, glad that he’d told her this much, but unable to go on with it. Fire fingers curled around the small, decorous logs behind the brass screen; his eyes blurred, and he saw the color of Carrie’s hair in the flames. “Do you remember when you set the chimney on fire, Ab?”
“Vividly.”
“How old were you?”
“Five or six. I thought I was helping.”
“By burning all the newspapers at once.”
“It seemed so sensible.”
She slipped her arm through his; she was preparing some sweet, tenderhearted speech. He loved her for it, but he couldn’t listen to it right now. “You’re all grown up, aren’t you?” he said quickly. “While my back was turned, you stopped being that pesky little girl and turned into this beautiful woman.”
“Did I?”
“How many men are in love with you?” He grinned, bent on lightening the mood.
“Oh, dozens.” She understood, and answered in the same airy tone. “Hundreds by now. I’ve lost count.”
“I don’t doubt it. Do you love any of them back?”
“Not one. I’m quite a ruthless heartbreaker.”
“But you wish you did,” he guessed. “You wish one of those depressingly eligible young men would break from the pack and sweep you off your feet.”
“Wouldn’t it be lovely?” She was smiling, but she sounded a trifle wistful. “I’m really not that hard to please; all he’d have to have is a few qualities Mother doesn’t approve of.”
“Well, don’t give up. There’s bound to be a complete rotter out there somewhere.”
They shared a good-humored pause.
Then she said, “Ty? If you ever need to talk about … anything, I hope you’ll feel comfortable talking to me. I’ve always known I could say anything to you, and it would be nice to think you felt the same about me.”
“I do.”
“Because there’s nothing you could say, nothing in the world you could do that could make me stop loving you.”
“Well, I haven’t killed anyone, you know.” This new Abbey fascinated him. When her gaze on his stayed steady and sincere, he put his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said from his heart. “I won’t forget that.”
They stood for a few more quiet minutes. He’d have stayed that way all afternoon, peering into the fire and exchanging desultory confidences with his sister. But Abbey knew her duty.
“You-know-who’s going to catch us,” she warned presently, glancing over her shoulder. “I’m afraid it’s time to be sociable, like it or not. You’re the guest of honor, after all. Have you spoken to Adele yet?”
“Yes, I spoke to her.”
“Not much, I bet. Not nearly enough, considering all the trouble she went to to look pretty for you.”She gave him another arch look, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Speaking of pretty girls, did Mother tell you about the lady from Wayne’s Crossing?”
“What lady?”
“She came to see you.”
“Came here?”
“Yes, the day before yesterday. A Miss Hamilton.”
He frowned. “I don’t remember anyone by that name. What did she want?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure. She said she was passing through, and wanted to thank you for everything you’d done for the town.”
“Hamilton,” he repeated, mystified. “What did she look like?”
“She was lovely. She had on a handsome blue merino wool gown, very stunning—even Mother thought so. But I think she was sad, Ty. Her eyes … I don’t know, I couldn’t shake the sense that something—”
“Tyler, for heaven’s sake, there you are. I thought you’d left the house. Shame on you, and you, too, Abigail, for encouraging him.” Carolivia sailed into the room under a full head of steam, amethysts glittering on her stately bosom like running lights on a frigate.
“What did I tell you?” Abbey said out of the side of her mouth. She wasn’t so grown up that she couldn’t still giggle. “I’m going, Mother; I’m gone.” Winking at Ty, she glided away, abandoning him without a qualm.
But, against all the odds, his mother didn’t scold him. She put her arms around him and gave him a quick, impulsive hug.
“What’s this?” he said, laughing to cover his surprise.
“I’m so proud of you.” Her strong voice quivered with telltale emotion. “And I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve missed you a great deal, you know.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I think there’s only one more thing I could wish for on this very special day.”
“And what’s that?”
“That your father were here to see the man his son has grown into.”
He kissed her smooth, perfumed cheek, noticing with a pang that she looked older than when he’d last seen her. She was still handsome, but she appeared to have softened. She was not quite so formidable as she had been.
In other ways, though, she hadn’t changed at all. She blinked the uncharacteristic moisture from her eyes and asked casually, “I don’t suppose you and Senator Lloyd had anything substantive to say to each other befor
e he got away?”
“Substantive? I wished him a very merry Christmas.”
“Nothing else?”
“Oh—and a happy New Year.”
She clucked her tongue; but she said no more, and he took that for a hopeful sign.
“You know I’m going to Washington in two days,” he reminded her. “I’m starting a new job that fills me with hope for doing something valuable with my life. With my real talents.” She glanced away; he touched the side of her face to make her look at him. “Your only son’s a scientist, Mother. Not a statesman, not even a politician. I’m a doctor.” He saw something shift in her eyes, and entertained the hope that it was the beginning of acceptance. “There’s only one thing,” he said gently, “that I could wish for on this very special day.”
She raised her aristocratic eyebrows somewhat fatalistically.
“That you’d celebrate with me because I’ve finally figured out what I ought to be doing with myself. And I can’t wait to start doing it.”
She sighed. “All I want for you is happiness, Tyler, whether you believe it or not. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“If that’s true, then you’ve got your wish.”
“Have I?” Her eyes narrowed on him in a too-shrewd appraisal, and he was afraid she would see the same shadows that Abbey had.
“Absolutely,” he said with conviction, taking her arm and moving her toward the door.
“Then I’ll say no more. Except …”
“What?”
“Oh, just that it wouldn’t do any harm to go and speak to Colonel Symington and his wife; they were in the dining room a moment ago. Well, you needn’t look at me that way. They’re guests, after all, it’s a matter of common—”
“I spoke to them already.”
“But not to much purpose, I expect.” She had the grace to blush. “Well, heavens, Ty, it isn’t only me—everyone’s talking about who’s going to replace Sternberg as surgeon general, and I see no reason in the world why it shouldn’t be you. I’m serious!”
“I know you are.” He gave her a noisy kiss, partly out of affection and partly to deflate her dignity a little further. “You’re incorrigible, aren’t you?”
“I just want you to be happy.”
“And I keep telling you that I am.”
“Very well, then.” She set her lips.
“Very well, then? You’ll say no more?”
“Not a word.”
“So it’s nothing to you whether I go over and charm Colonel Symington or not?”
“Perfectly immaterial.”
“Oh hell, Mother,” he laughed, “Now I suppose I’ll have to go talk to the old gasbag.”
“Don’t swear, Tyler. And don’t be vulgar.”
“I hate this new tactic, by the way.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
He chuckled and turned away—then back, remembering. “Abbey said a girl came to see me a few days ago. A Miss Hamilton?”
“That’s right. Catherine Hamilton, I think she said. Who is she?
“Well, that’s it—I don’t remember anyone by that name in Wayne’s Crossing.”
“How odd.”
“What do you think she wanted?”
“To see you, she said. But she wouldn’t leave a message. She was a pretty thing; I assumed she was one of your conquests.”
He returned her playful smile automatically. But the mystery nagged him. He’d only made one “conquest” in Wayne’s Crossing, and she wasn’t Catherine Hamilton. And he was the last person Carrie would look up if she happened to be “passing through.” Who had his visitor been, then?
The Symingtons were agreeable people, not gasbags at all; it was no hardship to exchange pleasant conversation with them while nibbling on smoked ham and salmon tarts. The subject of the surgeon general’s successor never came up. Ty moved easily from the Symingtons to the Dunaways to old Mrs. Waterton, lingered with his Uncle Andrew and Aunt Sally, and flirted for a few mechanical minutes with Adele. His cousin Teddy joined them, eager to tell stories about his first semester at Princeton. Adele wandered away. Tyler sipped from a cup of punch, smiling and nodding at the appropriate moments while Teddy detailed his strategy for making freshman crew coxswain.
Then he remembered.
The memory came to him on the sound of Carrie’s voice, husky from disuse and soft from shyness. That first night. While they sipped iced tea with mint vinegar, and she blurted out her life story.
My father was John Hamilton, my mother was Rachel.
He shoved his punch cup into his startled cousin’s hand and bolted from the room.
His mother’s genteel laughter sounded from somewhere at the back of the drawing room. He started for her, then changed course when he caught sight of Abbey’s lavender dress at the end of the foyer. She was moving toward him, arm in arm with Helen DeWitt, her best friend. Both women stopped when they saw his face. Abbey started to speak, but he seized her by her forearms, silencing her.
“What did she look like?”
“Who?”
“Catherine Hamilton—how did she look?”
Helen murmured politely and sidled away. Abbey looked flustered. “She—I told you, Ty, she was pretty, she had on a Lady Randolph hat, the rain had wilted the feather—”
He came very close to shaking her. “What did she look like?”
“Well—I think her hair was brown—”
“Brown!”
“No, red, maybe. Light; there was blonde in it, too. She had blue eyes, I think—oh, Ty, I can’t remember!”
He gentled his grip on her and spoke as calmly as he could. “Was she tall and slender, Ab?”
“Yes. She was, yes, taller than I—”
“And she had reddish-gold hair. Slippery hair, shiny, a lock or two of it falling around her face.”
Abbey nodded dumbly.
“And her eyes were gray-blue, and cloudy because she was sad.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He closed his own eyes and let go of Abbey’s hands. “It was Carrie. My God, it was Carrie.”
“Who is she?” Abbey asked fearfully.
“She’s—Carrie. Carrie Wiggins. Hamilton, now.” Empty-headed, he pivoted and started for the stairs. Abbey followed. When he halted and wheeled back, they almost collided. “What did she want?” he demanded. “Tell me again, everything she said.”
“She didn’t say much at all. Mother spoke to her more than I did. She only stayed a few minutes. When I told her you weren’t here, she looked—more than disappointed, she looked …”
She didn’t want to say it. “Tell me,” he commanded.
“She looked … defeated.”
He stared at his sister’s troubled face, picturing Carrie’s, straining to understand why she’d come. Two weeks ago she’d told him she was marrying Eugene.
“I invited her to your party,” Abbey remembered.
He almost laughed. He brought the heels of his hands to his eye sockets and pressed.
“She said she couldn’t come, she was going home that night.”
“She was going home?”
Abbey nodded.
He backed up a step. “I’ll go,” he muttered. “No—I’ll call. Who?” He took another step backward. “Stoneman’s still in Harrisburg. At least I think he is. Frank—would he be in his office on Christmas Eve? What time is it?” Abbey was gaping at him. “What time is it?” he repeated, then remembered he had a watch of his own. He yanked it out of his waistcoat and flipped it open. “Almost three. He might be there.”
“Ty, what can I do to help?”
“Nothing. No—tell Priest to call a hansom. No, wait. Never mind, it’ll be faster walking.”
“Where are you going?”
“Broad Street Station, I hope. But first—Abbey, I don’t have time to talk!” He backed into Uncle Andrew in the foyer. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, whirled, and raced away to the telephone.
Pennicle’s was surprisingly crowded
, considering it was Christmas Eve, but Carrie didn’t know anybody else in the restaurant. Anybody but Eugene, of course, who sat across from her at their table in the corner. She’d been struggling since they got here not to make comparisons between this evening and the only other time she’d ever eaten at Pennicle’s, and so far she’d succeeded middling well. But when Eugene lifted his beer mug and touched it to her glass of milk in a toast—“To us, Carrie”—there was no stopping the rush of memories of that night when Ty had done the same thing. Only he hadn’t toasted him and her, he’d toasted the start of her “new career.” “What are you two celebrating?” Mrs. Stambaugh had wanted to know, and Carrie had felt light and airy as a balloon when Ty explained about the “imminent purchase and publication of Carrie’s new book.”
Tonight Mrs. Stambaugh wouldn’t speak to her except to ask her what she wanted to eat. Respectable women like her and Mrs. Quick wouldn’t even look at her. Since she’d found out about the baby, Eugene’s mother could barely say two words in a row to her, and Mrs. Starkey wasn’t exactly a leading light in Wayne’s Crossing society. Eugene had had to bully her into attending her own son’s wedding.
Carrie crumbled a piece of bread on her plate and looked across the table at the man she was going to marry at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in the Odells’ parlor. He was wearing his second-best suit, which had black and white checks and a gray vest, and he’d put on a cheery red tie for the occasion of their pre-wedding dinner on the town. He’d recently acquired side-whiskers, and the oiled mustache he was so proud of met them at the tops of his ruddy cheeks. He looked healthy and prosperous and well fed. So well fed, in fact, that a disinterested corner of her mind wondered if he was going to get fat in a few years. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Not hard at all.
He blotted his lips with his napkin and caught her eye. “So,” he said, which was how he started most of his sentences. “You’re not saying much. What’re you thinking about? You nervous about tomorrow?”
“Yes, a little,” she smiled. “Aren’t you?”
“Nah,” he scoffed, “nothing to it. Stoneman still giving you away?”
“I think so.”
Sweet Everlasting Page 32
