"Pity," he said, tucking the gift back into his suit coat, his eyes never leaving Greta. "I bet I know something more suitable, though. Something you might really want. Can you think of what it is, robin?"
She met his eyes, knowing that he was referring to their exchange at the chandlery. But her soul was still as divided as it had been last week, when she had stood frozen by his challenge. Unable to ask him what he knew, yet unable to walk away from what that knowledge might be.
"Come along, little robin, you can drive with me."
Greta backed away, looking for her father, nowhere to be found in the parlor, and she was dizzy from trying to understand what was happening. Around her she could hear the whispers of her guests, amazed at the dark presence of Fielding, Burgess Fielding in the flesh. Burgess Fielding actually invited someone into his carriage.
Again, Greta heard her mother's voice ring out, "No."
"See here, Mrs., the driver can chaperone. I'm your husband's partner after all. She's completely safe with me." Burgess raised his voice, addressing Greta's father but not looking for him. "You can attest to that, eh, Roscoe?"
"No, Mr. Fielding," Greta's mother stated flatly. "She has guests."
Close by, Greta could hear Alicia Maynard--always impressed by wealth--whisper to another, but intending Greta to overhear, "Well, she just has to go. How can her mother not let her?"
"An hour at the most, Mrs."
"No, Mr. Fielding. Greta, thank the...man for his thoughtfulness."
Greta looked up into the craggy face of Burgess Fielding, frightened of him, but hating her mother more. Did he see this? He smiled like a hunter admiring his vanquished trophy. Greta turned to face her mother. She was surprised at the cool and calm of her own voice.
"Well, no more than an hour, Mother. The party's done, after all. If my guests don't mind this hasty good-bye."
They were staring wide-eyed, every one of them, even Mr. Maynard. Of course they didn't. They saw this as some sort of opportunity for her. Clearly, mercifully they understood even less about what was happening than Greta at that moment. In the presence of an authentic, if daunting, St. Louis legend, did any of them even notice the tensions arcing from Greta to her mother and back again to Burgess Fielding?
"Alicia," Greta managed smoothly, "would you help Mother finish up?"
So flattered was Alicia by this honor, she couldn't maintain her carefully crafted elegance. She giggled like the girl she had been only two months earlier, before her own sixteenth birthday. When Greta and Burgess left the house, her father was still in the hallway, his back hunched against the wall as though he didn't have the energy to move.
Chapter Eight
The Sins of the Fathers
They rode through streets vaguely familiar to Greta, her stomach knotting as the carriage trundled eastward. Yet she couldn't quite screw up the nerve to question her host until well after they had left her neighborhood.
"Just where is it we're going, Mr. Fielding?"
"A little jaunt through Forest Park."
"But, well, we've only got an hour..."
"Not planning on taking longer than that."
Greta's palms began to sweat through her new yellow gloves. She was staring straight ahead, but she could feel Burgess' steely gaze pressed against her temple like the flat of a razor. He was chuckling, as he had chuckled when she faced him at the chandlery, and she hated the sound. But she refused to look his way.
"Where'd all that spice go, robin? Where's that pepper from the other day? You afraid?"
She forced herself to look at him. "Why would I be afraid of you?"
Burgess turned toward her, his expression repulsing her. "Because I'm dangerous. You better learn to be afraid."
He looked away from her to bark an order at his driver, and they turned onto a little used path into the park. The dense canopy of hoary old hardwoods, still heavy with leaves at the cusp of summer and autumn, enclosed them. Young Greta's pulse spasmed. She had heard of things, horrible things, beginning this way. She and her friends had clustered together, retelling the tales they had overheard, eavesdropping on their mothers at tea. Gruesome rumors of stupid girls thinking to find adventure and romance, finding doom instead. Reputations ruined, lifetimes of poverty. Or worse. Throats slit, bodies naked and ravaged.
Greta's hands and face drained of heat as she stared at Burgess' leering visage. The trees' heavy bows blotted out the sun, their leafy edges stained with creeping, autumnal death. Burgess leaned away from her, his shoulders bobbing. His mouth was pressed tight, as though the sour laugh that finally broke through gave him as much discomfort as a gas pain.
"Wrong fear, robin," he said. "That's the last thing you need to fear from me." Then he lost that smile which never seemed real and that look came to his face, the licentious glower that turned her stomach at the chandlery. "Now, suppose you'd been around 30 years ago...yes, indeed...nice to know it still shows in my face."
She wanted to cry. She could feel the telltale ache in her eyes and throat and looked away, trying to stop the tears before they formed. She hoped Burgess would mistake the gesture for contempt. She wanted to demand that he take her home that very minute, but she didn't trust her voice.
"No, indeed," Burgess was saying. "Lost that weapon a long time ago. Indian wars. Don't miss it much, though, all that sweating and humping. Its only use is a momentary thrill, anyway. A woman's tool to weaken a man, spew out cloying clawing little carpet monkeys. Heirs. Progeny. So what? When's an heir done anything but siphon off capital? Takin' what's left once you're six feet under. Who needs it? Can't lengthen your years. They can sure as hell shorten them. Who needs it?"
Looking upon this memory, Greta noticed what she hadn't when she was that frightened girl riding next to Burgess Fielding. During his speech the nasty glimmer in his eyes dimmed, his voice lost bravado. His tone became bitter, more self-absorbed. By the time young Greta had the courage to look at him again Burgess was staring ahead as though remembering something that made his wretched soul bleed. By now, young Greta was physically sick. What little pretense she had mustered while watching the dark woods close in was all but gone.
She blurted out, "How can you…why are you telling me this?"
Burgess swiveled his glower back her way. "Your birthday present. Me to you. Mrs. can't object to it, since she's not supposed to know about it. And it doesn't cost me a damn thing."
"I don't understand."
"Knowledge, robin. I'm giving you knowledge. The kind your papa doesn't have the guts to give you and I bet that icy mama of yours can't even imagine."
"I still don't..."
"Just keep quiet. I'm giving you something special." Burgess' lips curled at the corners. "I'm giving you a baby brother. Your papa, my wife. Had themselves some real sport 11 years ago. Know how babies are made, don't you?"
Quite suddenly Greta felt the heat surge back into her face, although her hands were as cold as well water. She knew enough. She knew young women were given a 'bridal talk' by their mothers the night before a wedding, and she had gotten the usual fractured summary of this talk through girlhood gossip. But the heat pulsing in her cheeks was not from the embarrassment of such a vulgar topic. It was from what Burgess was saying about her father. And yet her outrage could find no release. Because she knew what her tormentor was saying was true. Witnessing this memory, watching her younger self, Greta felt the pain in her temples she had endured as that girl, when she had screamed inside herself, Dear Lord, how can I know that it's true?
And yet young Greta said, "I don't believe you. I don't believe you."
"So, ask your papa."
She looked up at him, renewed fury flashing from her eyes. "Don't think I won't."
Burgess Fielding's face crinkled with smugness. "Oh, I'm bettin' on it."
By now Greta was heedless of her tears. "Why are you being this way? What do you want?"
"Nothing you Roscoes can give me. Got that all already." He leaned back as th
e path widened and the trees, thank Heaven, relented. Ahead, Greta could see one of the gates leading out of the park. "No, this is a gift. Just a little birthday gift. We're almost there."
The driver turned left through the gate and reined the horses to a stop several blocks away. Before Greta's eyes was one of the oldest and grandest mansions in St. Louis. Brilliant white plaster walls, statuary brightly painted, as was the custom in those days. The solid marble columns were so large she couldn't have wrapped her arms around any of them. She had no way of knowing then, the despicable things she would have to do within its walls eight years later. Standing in the great, oaken doorway was a frail boy, about 11 years old. His face was as serious as he body was thin, and his auburn hair was as thick as Lawrence Roscoe's.
Greta stood up, forcing herself into the present, fully into the flat to which Aridite had brought her and Mr. Shane. She didn't want to cry in sympathy with that 16-year-old image of herself. But more than that, she didn't like remembering how she first met Marshall, how small and vulnerable he had seemed then. The next time she was to meet him, he was so utterly neither of those.
Mr. Shane looked at her. "Are you all right, Miss Roscoe?"
Greta took a deep breath. "I've been rambling on. Sorry, there's...there's not much else to tell."
"Not much else?" the minister replied. "But what happened? It seems you've just begun that part of the tale."
Thank God for her anger, thank God for that familiar emotion. It had protected her from these old, dusty sorrows, artfully forgotten so many years ago…at least until she began to laboriously unpack them again. Greta turned on Mr. Shane, very grateful for his careless words. They were her opportunity to reclaim the fire in her heart that burned away all her helplessness.
"Tale? I'm not here for your amusement. I'm dead. I've been released from having to satisfy anyone's morbid whims."
She stalked away, heading toward the flat's door, and she would have left there and then, if she could have. But she was not so irate that she didn't remember what Mr. Shane had encountered when, chasing after Aridite, he had flung the door open. That void...the way the minister's hand had just...ceased. Greta stopped short of the threshold, which gave Mr. Shane a chance to approach her.
"Miss Roscoe, please. That's not what I meant at all. How can I apologize?"
"You can't," Greta replied, and moved away from him, keeping him to her back. She knew he would be looking much too sincere, much too contrite, and it was important for her to stay cocooned in her anger.
"Please," Mr. Shane was saying, as she circled the flat, keeping him behind her. "I don't find your tragedy amusing at all. Please, will you stop marching?"
Greta had no intention of stopping, but Mr. Shane gained the space between them and blocked her way. Greta could see the compassion and regret in his face. She couldn't turn from him quickly enough to avoid it. Damn it all! She glowered at him while she tried desperately to keep her anger stoked, but the sincerity in his eyes was like a heavy, wet blanket against it. At least she could remain disgruntled.
"What else could you possibly want to know?"
She turned from him and made her way back to the divan. She sat and picked up her tea. It was still the perfect temperature. Mr. Shane remained where he stood, as though afraid his approach might botch things.
"Well, did you speak to the boy?"
"No." Greta took a long drink of the tea. "Burgess called Marshall to the carriage and made introductions of sorts. Oh, that man's expression, his smug, gloating expression. I refused to look at my so-called brother. Once he was sufficiently amused, Burgess dismissed Marshall like he was some beggar harassing for a penny."
"Did Mr. Fielding introduce you to his son as 'sister'?"
Greta nodded. She could almost hear Burgess' words again.
"See this girl? She's your sister, but you don't have much in common with her. This one's got spice, a lot more like me than you'll ever be."
Mr. Shane was standing at the arm of the divan. "But how did young Master Fielding react?"
"I told you I wouldn't look at him. How would I know?"
She heard Mr. Shane whisper something, some benign expletive in sympathy with either her or Marshall, she supposed. He took the chance and settled next to her on the divan.
"Then what happened?" he asked.
"Nothing. He ordered Marshall back to the house and finally drove me home."
"But didn't he tell you why? What was his purpose, what did he hope to gain with such a cruel performance?"
Greta was shocked by the minister's question. "Burgess? Amusement, Mr. Shane. Satisfaction, perhaps. Cruelty was the only pleasure that old tyrant could feel."
Mr. Shane's brow was knitted in disbelief. "He simply wanted to hurt you?"
"Not me, I was incidental. He wanted to torment my father."
"He told you that?"
Greta squeezed her eyes shut. How could she make him understand? He hadn't been the one trapped in that carriage. It was she who had to endure Burgess' taunts as she was driven back to her parents, the rhythm of the horse's hooves thumping behind the old despot's voice:
"Can't deny it, robin, you saw him standing there. Wearing the velvet and short pants I provide. My little property, your little brother. You don't want to believe it, but you know who to ask. Suppose your papa's got the guts to own up?"
Mr. Shane queried, "Did you ask him, Miss Roscoe?"
"What?" Greta looked down into her tea, and whispered, "No."
"Why not?"
"I didn't have to. I knew it was true."
"So, he failed. Mr. Fielding failed. He couldn't torment your father through you."
"Yes, he could. I hated Father for a long time after that. I did what I could to punish him. And I became obsessed with finding all the missing pieces to the scandal. Burgess was only too happy to help. Through him, I learned how and what he extorted from my family. All it took was a bit of rummaging around in the chandlery office to find the paperwork that verified Burgess' every word. The incorporation, the terms of partnership...Father even had a carboned copy of the doctor's testament regarding Burgess' impotence."
"You can't be serious."
"Why can't I?"
"Well, surely he didn't have something like that just lying around the shop."
"He had the documents in the files. It took days before I learned to pick the lock."
"But why would Mr. Fielding release such a thing to your father?"
"Why shouldn't he? Do you think he'd worry about Father turning it over to the Globe-Democrat?"
Mr. Shane seemed to be thinking this over. "Yes, of course. Your father would require some proof. No one would accept such a claim without evidence, not even someone so…"
The minister stopped short, but not before his chastened expression betrayed what he'd left unspoken. Offense stirred in Greta. But she could hardly condemn Mr. Shane for his thoughts, which she finished for him.
"Not even someone as nerveless as Lawrence Roscoe."
"Miss Roscoe, I…"
"Oh, don't bother, Mr. Shane; it's true."
"So you continued to visit with Mr. Fielding?"
"Much as I despised him, I relented to his company. I knew what the sight of me riding with Burgess did to Father. And Mother."
Greta closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel a softness--ever so small--that she had forgotten existed. She let the softness recede on its own, opened her eyes, and looked at Mr. Shane.
"One good thing did come of this. The more I learned, the better I understood Mother. I realized that her obsession with getting me properly married or gainfully employed was an attempt to protect me, to provide for me. In the end, I didn't resist her every word and action as I once did. But that was cold comfort. The rift between us was much too old; it didn't close so much as stop widening. Neither of them tried very hard to keep me away from Burgess Fielding. I was like a child drawn to the gruesome oddities of a carnival, with no one to pull me away from the si
ghts. You know, I think Burgess may have understood me better than my own parents. Whether I confronted Father with his old sin or not, Burgess somehow knew that what he revealed to me would be another thorn in Father's heart."
Mr. Shane's voice was nearly a whisper. "Did you ever learn to forgive them?"
That was just the sort of comment Greta wished she could rail against, take in offense. But the fact was, painful though the memory was, she had forgiven her parents. She had forgiven them, but forgiveness came too late. And she didn't have to dig very deeply into that dreadful bin of memories, so freshly wrenched open. The day she had forgiven them was barely three years passed.
Greta was still living at home; 23, unmarried. She knew people gossiped about her, wondering what could be the matter with such a bright and lovely woman, that she was not even so much as engaged. The general consensus was that she was on her way to spinsterhood. But Greta had stopped worrying about what people thought long ago. Only one person mattered to her at all. She was not about to leave Tess to grow up in that house all alone. And alone Tess would be, or as good as the same, if Greta were to leave.
As for Burgess, he had died two years before in his sleep. Quietly. Even peacefully, she'd heard tell. Had Greta not been so relieved to know he was dead, she would have found the rumored gentleness of his demise galling. But she had learned long ago to accept any gifts of fate that may come her way, no matter how imperfect. Her father had sent stilted, brief condolences to the only known Fielding heir: Marshall. For once in his life, Greta's father hadn't seemed the least concerned about public opinion, and conspicuously remained absent from the funeral. But he had spent that day drinking even more heavily than usual. Burgess' death, however, evoked little change in Greta's life or her family's. The Roscoe livelihood was still enough to maintain the family, to keep acceptable clothing on them, to keep proper food in the cupboards. Greta worked at the chandlery, her modest wage a disbursement of the partnership.
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