Neither parents nor children had many friends. The family's perceived eccentricity had long ago lost its charm in the community. The Roscoes were invited only to those functions in which their society felt obligated to include them. But that was just as well. The Roscoes were known for avoiding functions that weren't obligatory, anyway.
Yet there was a certain aspect to Burgess' departure that did improve their lot. He would never again show up at their door. He would never be happened upon at the chandlery. Burgess Fielding, thank God, was dead and no more surprises would come from him. Greta took comfort in this, and sensed that her parents took some form of the same. Greta was certain they had not foreseen Marshall's arrival any more than she.
He appeared during the Twelve Days; the seventh, to be precise. It was a typical December evening, cold and damp. Tess, 11 years old, was listening to the old gramophone the family had bought from Mr. Maynard months before, when he had purchased a new one. For Christmas, Greta's parents had given her and Tess a recording of Wagner's epic The Ring of the Nibelungs.
The women were settled around the hearth. The Christmas tree, that fat, fresh little tree, hardly taller than she, holding up during its fifth day indoors, laden with ribbons of purple and red, a few lace kerchiefs bundled around peppermint drops. Its earthy, evergreen bouquet filled Greta's head even now. Her mother hadn't lit the candles yet, held fast to the occasional bough with small silver clips. That was because the bucket, filled with water, wasn't at its seasonal post beside the tree. The hallways had been mopped that day, and Tess had yet to retrieve it from the kitchen. The candles wouldn't be lit until the bucket was set back in place.
Even without this theater-like vividness, Greta could have recalled the evening easily. Mother sat darning stockings next to the parlor fire. She wasn't overly fond of Tess playing that 'scratchy contraption', but she always tried to be more tolerant during the Season, and she liked Wagner. Father was in his small, dark study as usual. So, it was Greta who answered the door bell, which she normally did, whenever someone turned its large, brass key.
None of them were more than mildly curious. After all, it was the Holiday and even the Roscoes were receiving an occasional visitor or seasonal treat. So when Greta answered the door, her shawl gripped tightly at her throat to ward off the expected cold, she wasn't very shocked to look into the eyes of someone she thought of as a stranger.
Marshall was a very attractive stranger at that; as tall as Greta's father had once been. His was the long, slender face of Lawrence as well, though Marshall's complexion was fresh and seamless. He was only a year or so past 20. It had been some time since Lawrence's hair had been that same dark auburn. Greta's father hadn't aged well, so that his hair's rich color had faded.
None of this was what crossed Greta's mind. What she was now recognizing as she suffered this memory was hind sight, which is so often a mirror image sharper than that which it reflects. On that seventh night of Christmas Greta hadn't been expecting Marshall, of all people, at the door: her half-brother, whom she hadn't seen since he was a skinny little tyke, and then for only a matter of minutes. He, on the other hand, recognized her, though he also seemed surprised by her presence.
"Greta? Greta Roscoe?"
"Yes, happy Christmas. And you are?"
He seemed unable to reply. The best way Greta could describe his expression was one of disappointment. But he recovered from this and the smile that sprang to his lips was disturbingly familiar.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt your evening. May I speak with your father?"
Greta's senses were prickling. She licked her lips and indulged her reluctance to invite this visitor into the hallway. "May I tell him who's calling?"
There was nothing other than his smile that seemed out of place. He didn't even appear insulted by what was less than cordial behavior. He dipped a kid-gloved hand into the inner pocket of his great coat.
"Well, it's a surprise, really. But a very good one, I hope. Here." He produced a tiny envelope, hardly larger than a calling card, which was what it clearly contained. It was an odd way to present one's card. But elegantly so. If Greta's intuition weren't prodding her so insistently, she could have found all this delightful. She took the little envelope from him. "If you would please present that to Mr. Roscoe, I'd be grateful. May I wait here?"
It was hard to resist opening the tiny mystery, not only because of genuine curiosity, but also because something inside Greta was still warning of trouble. But what trouble? This man wasn't the least bit threatening, whatever was wrong with her? Was she so disturbed by his smile? Yes, it was rather put-on, but she had encountered people much less sincere. She was being ridiculous. And rude, to boot.
"Of course, you may, I'm sorry. Please come in."
"If it's not inconvenient..."
"No, really, I don't know where my manners are. Come in."
"Thank you. Right here will do very fine. I don't want to disturb the family."
Leaving the visitor in the hallway Greta tapped two knuckles against the study door. Always three firm taps and a moment's hesitation to give her father a chance to stow away whichever bottle he had chosen for the evening. Then she slid the pocket door into its wall slot and peered into the dimness. Father never had more than the desk lamp turned up. He seemed to think it concealed the glassiness of his eyes. As was the norm, he was just closing the lower desk drawer on his right and pulling the upper left one open. He retrieved a ledger from it, looking new and untouched, as his eyes briefly met his daughter's.
"Yes, dear one?"
Greta stepped into the study. She could smell the tangy vapor of spirits by the time she was halfway between threshold and desk. Nevertheless, she walked up to her father and looked at him, even as his gaze flitted to Greta's forehead, her shawl, over her shoulder; then to her outstretched hand which held the little envelope.
"A gentleman's here to see you."
Her father reached for the envelope, his brow knitted. "Oh?"
He popped the envelope open with his thumb, took his spectacles from the desk and fingered them into place before holding the calling card up to the lamp. Greta couldn't see the name it held from where she stood but, even in such dim light, she could see the color drain from Lawrence's face. The prickling sensation she had experienced became a stabbing in her belly.
"Daddy?" she asked, unaware that she was even using the diminutive she had abandoned years ago.
Lawrence gasped, as if he had barely escaped strangling. "Where is he?"
"Are you all right?" Greta moved toward her father, but he looked at her with such a flame in his eye that she was stopped short.
"Where is he, Greta?"
She couldn't remember the last time his voice sounded so strong. "Out by the door, in the hall. What's going on? Who is he?"
"Send him in."
"Who is he, Father?"
"Just send him in. And I will send him away."
Then came Marshall's voice, Greta knew now, as she watched this memory unfold. "You won't need to, if you'll just hear me out."
He was at the study door. Greta had a clear sense that he had been there all along, that he had followed her there. She turned, putting herself between Marshall and her father.
But her father said, his voice still strong, "Go back with your mother and sister."
"Absolutely not."
"Greta," her father began, forcefully. "They'll need you, dear one." The gentleness in his voice caused her to turn and look at him. His eyes, though still red and glassy, returned her gaze steadily. "Please."
"All right," she replied, reluctantly. "But if you need anything..."
Greta didn't finish, because she wasn't sure what she could have said. She looked back at Marshall, more aware than ever of an ominous familiarity about him. That well-trained cordiality he had affected at the front door was gone, and in its place was a blankness she would come to know all too well in the next few years...a face chillingly devoid of any emotion whatsoever.
She did not think the best place for her to be was with Tess and Mother. But she left, for her father's sake, and because the sudden rebirth of strength in his voice urged her to trust his judgment. How erroneous that trust would prove to be. But she didn't know it then. She left the study, even closed the pocket door as her father had asked. The last words she heard come from the study were Marshall's to her father.
"There's only one thing I want, and if you offer it, all will be well. I promise you.
Chapter Nine
Forgiveness
Greta stared up at the flat's ceiling paper, an oddly vulnerable position for her. She let her forearms rest upon her green satin lap and wondered if Mr. Shane would let her sit like this; not ask her to go on. That would be so nice, to sit and count the ceiling's tiny ivory flowers until counting was all her mind could do. Number them until she drifted into sleep. If she sat very quietly, would Mr. Shane let her?
"Miss Roscoe? Are you all right?"
Greta let her head roll to the right so she could look at him. He smiled, sadly and fondly, as if he was at last accepting that she might choose not to continue. But he'd be bitterly disappointed if she didn't, wouldn't he? She looked back to the ceiling and let the memory form before her eyes, as though it was shaping itself from the embossed, ivory pattern.
How long had she waited in the family's parlor? As she recalled, it had seemed an hour, though she knew that the wait had probably been much shorter. There was no telling as she witnessed this memory, for she was seeing herself standing before the Christmas tree, as she had been just before her father had entered. Greta remembered that she had struggled to read a page or two out of Dickens before dropping the book to the floor to stand before the tree and brood. Tess was cranking up the gramophone, preparing for The Ring's great climax of love triumphant over the oppression of power. Greta could see her mother as she could not possibly have seen her that evening, her back having been toward the older woman.
She was watching Greta, fingers poised in mid-stitch over the needlework, a question in her eyes, and then out-right premonition as she turned to Tess, and snapped, "Child, turn that contraption off."
Startled, Tess obeyed. The Ring's great moment aborted, and Greta's mother looked toward the parlor doors seconds before they slid open. Lawrence Roscoe stood there alone, his face taking on the pallor he would have the rest of his life. He remained mute at the threshold, his hands still gripping the doors as though fettered in place. His gaze rested upon his wife.
"Georgia," he said, at last. "Forgive me."
Greta looked to her mother. Georgia's hands moved delicately from the needlework in her lap, and slid to the arms of the chair as though she intended to rise, but was afraid to make any sudden movement. Tess' eyes, filled with confusion and apprehension, darted between her parents until Greta called the girl's name and motioned her sister to her side. Tess came to her immediately. Lawrence's gaze broke away from his wife at the movement and fell heavily upon his daughters.
"You must all forgive me. If only you would..."
Georgia's voice was nearly a whisper. "Lawrence?"
Greta's father moved his gaze sluggishly to his wife, yet he remained in the threshold, his fingers still clutching the doors. "All these years I thought I was protecting you," he said. His voice was as strong as it had been in his study, yet toneless. "He said he'd put you on the street; you and Greta. He would have. No matter what I could've offered him. He would have. Now he's done it, anyway."
He was speaking of Burgess Fielding, of course. But Greta's mother seemed transfixed as she was upon her husband. Greta couldn't find the courage to ask for clarity, and pulled Tess tightly against her as though the dead tyrant might rise through the floorboards and snatch the girl away.
It was Tess, who said emphatically, "I don't understand. I want to understand."
Then a voice came from behind Greta's father, very smoothly, without the least rancor, "This won't do. You wanted to be the one to tell them, but you're only confusing them."
Marshall's form loomed forward. He unceremoniously dislodged Greta's father and forced him over the threshold. His great coat was draped across one arm, but he still wore his soft, gray gloves. Greta's mother found her voice. She stood, oblivious to the needlework falling to the floor.
"Who are you? What is this intrusion?"
Marshall met Georgia's glower and smiled. "Here's the thing, you see. My name is Marshall Fielding. I'm claiming my legal right to your house and remaining shares in the chandlery and the Roscoe engine. Lawrence is entitled to some sort of compensation. My attorneys will contact him after the Holiday to firm things up."
Marshall Fielding. Greta remembered how that name coming from his lips seemed to press against her chest until she could barely breath. Marshall Fielding. Brother. Perhaps his name had the same effect on her mother. Georgia's mouth was working in spasms, taking several seconds to finally push a smattering of words outward.
"What did you say?"
"Mrs. Roscoe. It's all in the contracts," Marshall replied, adept at manufacturing a nonchalance in voice and manner. He was shouldering on his great coat. "Believe me, if I was left a choice in this matter, I wouldn't have disturbed you."
Georgia was looking at her husband, her expression not so much one of disbelief as of a desire to not believe. Greta saw herself looking at her father, too, and remembered seeing the emotion thrashing in his eyes. Still, her father remained silent. Tess spoke up, too young to be anything but outraged by this stranger.
"You can't come in here like this. This is our house. Greta will have Daddy throw you out."
Marshall's attention focused on Tess. Greta pulled her sister more tightly against her. His smile widened in the manner Greta knew so well. It was his expression of delight, when he was certain of victory.
"This is little Tess, no doubt. So you think Greta would do that? Would Greta get your big, strong papa to throw me out?" Marshall's gaze rolled upward to Greta, and he took one step toward her, his smile of victory fixed in place. "Would she do that to me?"
Greta's eyes narrowed. Her shock and dismay abated as she back at Marshall. There was nothing she could do--nothing any of them could do--to save one another. All that was left was the satisfaction of facing the enemy with courage.
"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to get you Fieldings out of our lives."
Marshall didn't reply. His expression shifted subtly, ever so briefly, before the glint of malevolence was regained. "Yes," he said, finally. "I know exactly how you feel. But believe me, it's no use. You just can't escape family, no matter what you do."
Greta felt the heat of a retort building in her throat, but it was another's voice filled with heat, that confronted Marshall.
"Now, that's enough from you. You've done what you've come to do. Get out."
Everyone turned to Greta's father. He was standing by the hearth, sweat beading on his forehead. But Greta was certain those droplets were forced by the rage writhing behind his face rather than the low-burning fire. It was amazing to see him so.
Greta saw doubt ripple through Marshall as she witnessed this memory. He had never met Lawrence Roscoe face-to-face before this evening. He was staking his entire gamble on the profile that would have been offered by old Burgess. Marshall had no real way of knowing if he had underestimated Greta's father. But she saw the doubt pass away soon enough, as though Marshall could not abide any loss of control.
"But I'm not done," he said, calmly. He found his smile again, though his eyes became steely. "There's no use behaving as if all this is my doing. You could have prevented this. I think, at the very least, they should have the truth."
"And it's mine to tell." was Lawrence's retort, his eyes reddening as though blood would burst through. "Get out! Get out, you...you …"
"Bastard?" Marshall offered.
As in his study Greta's father gasped as though strangling, but it was rage that squeezed his throat. In spite of knowing what her fath
er would do, the moment was springing past Greta as startlingly as ever: her father sweeping down to the hearth, the log, once dying in the red-blue flames, grasped bare-handed, flying at Marshall, red sparks glittering and blue smoke filling its aerial wake.
One of the women screamed. Greta was still unsure if it was she or her mother. There was a brilliant starburst of red and orange as the log crashed into something. Marshall's arm, flung upward in defense. Then came the lively, little tongues of yellow flame, scattered about Marshall as though trying to surround him as he clawed off his smoldering great coat. Slapping at patches of singed hair on his head, he stamped the coat against the carpet, snuffing the pattern of tiny flames in the process. The blackened remainder of the log, smoking but impotent, rolled against Georgia's fallen needlework. The pungent stench of burnt hair and wool was thick as the smoke layering the air.
Greta remembered how she had laughed at Marshall. How flustered he was, his eyes wide and disbelieving, chest heaving. The singed patches on his head and the ashy smudges against his jaw line were a clownish frame around his frustration. Greta laughed at him with as much scorn as she could muster while her brother snatched his scorched coat from the floor. Tess followed Greta's lead imitating her sister's laugh as best she could, though her voice was tremulous.
Marshall's incredulous expression contorted into a grimace of outrage and menace, every bit as vivid in this memory as it had been on that awful night. He turned it venomously upon Greta and Tess. Greta's laughter caught in her throat. Tess hid in Greta's skirts as though she were years younger than 11. Then Greta glimpsed something she didn't recall seeing that night. She realized that she hadn't had the eyes for it then. When Marshall swung his contorted expression back to Lawrence a bright sparkle of tears burst over his lashes.
His voice was strained to cracking, when he promised, "I'm going to ruin you."
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