“It’s a shame the boys haven’t had a chance to meet Tamora. Yet I haven’t seen her since she was an infant, either!” She opened her arms in a luxurious stretch. “Am I a dreadful mother for not missing the boys? They are so exhausting. How lucky you are to have a girl. I hear they’re so much easier.”
Knowing Mary would see Tamora soon enough, Amelia tried to change the subject. “Randolph likes dinner at an appallingly early hour here in the country. I hope you won’t mind if we dine at six-thirty.”
But Mary wasn’t to be dissuaded. She drew uncomfortably close to Amelia, so that Amelia could smell her gardenia scent. She was also close enough that Amelia noticed the grubby discoloration of the inside collar of Mary’s suit blouse. Of course, silk was notoriously hard to clean.
“I’ll bet you never have to take a switch to her, like Douglas does to our boys. He says it’s the only way to make them men.”
What is she saying? Beating a child is never helpful. Seeing Mary’s serious eyes, she knew she wasn’t joking. Randolph had only once suggested that they beat Tamora.
“She’s too old to be such a savage. You spoil her, my love. If you didn’t spoil her so, she wouldn’t range about.” He had unconsciously rubbed at the thumb of his left hand. “Or bite.”
By the time Tamora was four, and had become aggressive, they had been to a number of doctors. Several had suggested old-fashioned bloodletting, one a ghastly transfusion that would have replaced half the child’s blood with the blood of a goat. All agreed that she had a disease of the brain that might be cured by changing the amount and type of blood reaching it. All also strongly suggested that she be placed in a sanitarium where she might not hurt herself or others. Fortunately, she had not yet hurt herself beyond banging her head against the wall when she was overly tired.
“Did you know”—Mary’s voice was a whisper—“that Douglas’s father beat both the boys? Beat Randolph with a strap until he bled, when Randolph was only six years old.”
Randolph rarely spoke about his parents, who had given up their New York City house and lived as recluses in East Quogue. They had only come to the church for Amelia and Randolph’s wedding, rising and kneeling and sitting when required, but they had left right after the service, each shaking Amelia’s hand, offering their best wishes. Randolph’s mother had kissed her cheek with dry lips and smelled faintly of tobacco. They had arranged for a pair of coach horses as a wedding gift and had sent an enormous silver tureen in the shape of a turtle when Tamora was born. Randolph rarely saw them now that his business interests were not entwined with his father’s, and they’d never invited Amelia to visit.
“Surely not.” It was the only response Amelia thought she could give. Anything else would be simple gossip. She was familiar with the intimacies of her husband’s body, yet had never noticed any scars.
But her voice must have been too sharp. Mary bristled.
“Well, you could ask him. He’s your husband. Douglas and I have very frank discussions.”
Amelia wondered about the truth of Douglas’s frankness with his wife. No, she would not ask Randolph. That he had learned cruelty—subtle cruelty—somewhere was more than obvious, but her frankness with him didn’t extend to things that she didn’t really want to know more about. If he ever harmed Tamora in such a way, she didn’t know what she would do. She hoped that she would have the strength to kill him.
Bliss House was large enough to accommodate at least a dozen guests, plus staff, but it bothered Amelia that Randolph had invited Douglas and Mary without telling her beforehand. She and Tamora had been at the house for only a week. Tamora had not calmed, and only that morning, before the couple had arrived, Harriet had spent an hour following her up and down the stairs when she wandered, making her excited unh unh unh sounds, as she sought out familiar rooms.
“It’s good for her to get the exercise. We’ll go outside later, but it hasn’t warmed up enough yet,” Harriet had told her.
How grateful Amelia was to Harriet. She nearly had as much control over Tamora as Amelia herself did.
Since they had arrived, Randolph was like a stranger to Tamora, and Tamora disliked strangers. Not only did she avoid his eyes, but she shied under his infrequent touch. If it wounded Randolph, he never said. When she was much younger she would sit near him and let him touch her hair if he was gentle. But here in Virginia there had been no such interaction, and Randolph didn’t seem to be in a hurry for it. He never asked to have her brought to him nor entered the nursery.
Presenting Tamora to Douglas and Mary would be awkward at best. She doubted it would go as well as it had with Aaron Fauquier, the pleasant young man who was staying with them at Bliss House. Randolph had explained that he had been Monsieur Hulot’s assistant who was now settling in Virginia, and that he hadn’t had any time during the summer and fall to work on his own house in Old Gate because he had been so busy with Bliss House. So Randolph had invited him to be their guest until the spring. Aaron had politely made himself scarce to let Amelia settle in, but she quite liked him. He was far less serious than Randolph, and sometimes set up an easel to paint in the theater when the day was sunny. He had met Tamora but hadn’t pressured her to be friendly.
At their home in North Hempstead, on Long Island, Amelia had furnished a small family dining room where they could accommodate themselves and four or five additional guests. Randolph had made no such accommodation for Bliss House. The five of them—Amelia, Randolph, Douglas, Mary, and Aaron Fauquier—sat in the formal dining room at a table that would comfortably seat sixteen, but at least Randolph hadn’t insisted that she sit opposite him at the other end of the long table.
Mary sat at Randolph’s right, with her husband beside her; Amelia was at his left, with Aaron Fauquier on her other side. Mary preened under Randolph’s attentions, and he flattered her mercilessly until Amelia was certain that he was completely insincere.
Bliss House didn’t feel like it belonged to her at all, and she had a strange feeling that it would never truly be her home. It was horrid, feeling like a guest in one of her own houses. She couldn’t see herself growing old here, or entertaining her family. “Of course we’ll come and see you!” her sister had said. Even as they had embraced at the station, she had known it wasn’t true. Worse, Tamora was often bewildered and distressed, constantly in search of the sunny white room she’d had on Long Island. It had been a cruelty to bring her here, and Amelia wished she had never agreed to leave New York. But if the whole house felt strange and distant to her, the dining room repelled her.
Along with the mahogany-manteled fireplace, the furnishings were pleasant enough: There were two Chippendale sideboards and built-in, glass-fronted cupboards filled with the silver pieces Randolph had purchased in New York. The chairs were heavy and comfortable. But Randolph had carried—or let the architect carry—the peacock motif too far with the mural of hundreds, if not thousands, of feather eyes. Mary had exclaimed over it, saying she felt like a princess from the Orient, dining beneath the wondrous, watchful eyes, and that Randolph was terribly clever for thinking of such a thing. Douglas, always taciturn, hadn’t commented, and Amelia suspected that he was of her mind about the eyes: No one should be made to feel like they were being watched while dining.
Emboldened by the wine, Amelia asked Aaron about the decoration of the dining room. Aaron’s answer surprised her.
“It’s funny you should ask. Monsieur Hulot had planned a more historical, idyllic mural. Mountains and forests, animals—stylized, of course, not terribly realistic. The colors were to be celadon and pale browns and blues. But then this summer, Randolph suddenly became obsessed with the idea of peacocks. Said he had dreamed of them. Hulot was outraged and almost quit over it. Said he had never heard of anything so ridiculous, that he was not a purveyor of the art of rug merchants.” Aaron laughed.
“Rug merchants? What on earth did he mean?”
“Oh, I suppose he meant Middle Eastern art. Mosaics and such. Though there are m
any examples in French architecture of the last century with Eastern influences. It wasn’t until I found the statue of Hera with her peacock that he gave in and extended the motif to the dining room.”
Amelia glanced around the room. “It feels like they’re watching.”
“I have had that sense myself,” Aaron said. “In fact, Bliss House has a certain feeling to it, don’t you think? One has the sense of being never quite alone. It should be a comfort on a long winter night, out here away from town. I prefer having close neighbors, but I can see the attraction.”
Amelia held her tongue. She, too, preferred to have friends and neighbors nearby. At least she had until Tamora was born.
“It’s interesting how clients are influenced by the things they see when they travel. About the time Randolph inquired about the peacocks, he also came to Monsieur Hulot with a sample of the Oriental wallpaper he wanted in the ballroom.”
She waited for him to continue, but he was suddenly silent. His face had gained a slight flush, and he quickly took a sip of wine. When he turned back to her, he changed the subject.
“That’s an elegant necklace you’re wearing. Is it a family heirloom?”
Amelia touched the ruby chandelier necklace at her throat. In fact, Randolph had given it to her that summer. She wondered if there were some connection between the red jewels and the red wallpaper. And why Aaron Fauquier had become so nervous.
Clayton Poole, the husband of the cook, Maud, was serving apple pie when they heard a commotion out in the hall and hurried footsteps on the stairs. Amelia blanched and rose from her chair.
“Will you please excuse me for a moment?”
Beside her, Aaron started and stood up. Douglas and Randolph quickly rose as well.
“Please do sit. I’ll return in a few moments.” Amelia’s voice was strained.
It was too late. Tamora ran into the dining room, stopping only when she noticed all the people at the table. She was dressed in one of the thick flannel nightgowns that Amelia had had made for her out of particularly soft cotton. Her blond hair was loose and damp, but neatly brushed. It had been a good evening, then, if she had let Harriet brush her hair.
Harriet appeared behind her, looking stricken.
“Forgive me, Missus Bliss. I went to drain the bath, and she ran out. I should have known when she began to fret.”
“Oh, what a precious love!” The men had resumed their chairs, but Mary rose, and with a swiftness that took everyone by surprise, was within a few feet of clasping Tamora to her generous bosom.
Amelia sucked in her breath. Tamora’s face didn’t change, but Amelia sensed her alarm in the way her achingly slender body tensed, the cords in her neck sharpened.
“What a sweet darling girl. Give your aunt Mary a hug.”
Amelia found her voice. “Please, Mary. Not now.”
When Mary turned to Amelia, confused, Tamora’s head whipped to the French doors leading to the patio. One stood open a few inches because Mary had complained of the room’s heat.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Harriet lunged at Tamora’s back to keep her from the doorway, but Tamora was too fast, and was already disappearing into the November night before Harriet’s words faded. Harriet fell onto Mary, her fingers hooking onto the fragile chiffon silk ruff standing like an inch-high wall along Mary’s breasts. The chiffon and the silk beneath it tore, exposing Mary’s expensive corset and partially dislodging one honey-cream breast.
Distressing as it was, to Amelia it was nothing compared to the idea of Tamora exposed to the cold November night, barefoot and in a nightgown, and she hurried around them. Stupid women! She wondered if Harriet was drunk.
Thank God there was no snow, but neither was there a visible moon. It astonished her how fast Tamora was. She was deliberate and often ponderous in her actions, but when she ran, she was like an agile cat, her feet seeming not to touch the ground. It was unseemly for a girl, but then there was so much that others might think unseemly about Tamora. Amelia’s light slippers shushed softly on the brick of the patio as she ran. Tamora was already on the rough drive, as though headed for the road over a quarter mile distant.
The air froze Amelia’s lungs. She was not someone who enjoyed brisk walks and exerting exercise, but somehow it was exhilarating, and she had a sense of her daughter’s mad—yes! Sadly mad!—rush for freedom. And it would surely happen again because Randolph hadn’t thought about keeping his daughter safe. Bliss House had no locks on the outer doors and windows.
When the ground beneath Amelia’s slippers turned to gravel, she felt the unevenness of the rocks. How was Tamora even going on? The poor child’s feet would be bruised and cut.
Amelia called after her, and it may have been her imagination, but she was sure the figure in white paused. If Tamora got too far away, she wouldn’t be able to see her at all. The night was too dark.
There were loud, rushed footfalls in the gravel behind her, and she looked back to see shadows against the great lighted house. Two of the shadows were outlined in front of the dining room doors, but one was coming closer and closer. Finally, Aaron emerged from the darkness.
“Missus Bliss! Tell me where she is—I can’t see her!”
Amelia had to pause and gather her breath so she could speak. She pointed. “There. The new trees planted along the lane. See how she weaves in and out?” Even in the darkness, Tamora was setting a pattern. Amelia knew if she accidentally missed a tree in her panic, she would retrace her steps to make sure she went between it and the next. It was as though by making patterns she was leaving a trace of herself wherever she went.
As Aaron ran toward the immature trees, Amelia followed at a jog, calling after him to take care and be gentle. She will fight you like a cat. This she did not say aloud. The important thing was that he stop Tamora and get her inside before she was injured or caught a deathly cold.
After a few moments, she heard her daughter howl with rage. It was a familiar sound that caused a hot flaring in Amelia’s chest, but it meant that she had been captured.
They re-entered the house through the dining room doors. Amelia carried Tamora, who pressed her face aggressively against Amelia’s neck as though she were trying to burrow into it. Aaron walked close by, but out of Tamora’s line of sight. Everyone else in the room stood, silent. Mary at least had the sense to look chagrined. Her bodice had been pulled up, and the torn chiffon artfully arranged to hide the damage.
“Harriet, bring up her milk. Just warm. And the sugar cubes and two dozen salted peanuts. Count them out. Tea for me, as well.”
“I’m—”
Douglas put a hand on Mary’s arm before she could say any more.
Randolph spoke. “Aaron, you seem to have things well in hand. Would you escort Amelia to the nursery, please? Amelia, I’ll see to our guests.”
It was like Randolph not to want to get involved when Tamora had embarrassed him. No one had even thought to get a blanket for the freezing child.
Aaron kept his voice low. “Of course, Randolph. I meant to.”
To Amelia’s surprise, Tamora didn’t struggle when she put her down on a chair near the fireplace in the nursery. Aaron stood a dozen feet away, looking at the collection of animals and dolls arranged around the room in cases and on shelves. There were almost as many taxidermy animals as dolls.
“Here, darling, it’s the softest blanket. Let’s wrap you up.” Amelia quickly wrapped the blanket around Tamora so that her feet were tucked inside but her arms were relatively free.
Tamora touched her mother’s cheek with her thin white fingers. Amelia knew she could bear any unpleasantness when such a moment occurred.
“Of course you wanted to find me. Nobody is angry. Here’s Evangeline.” She set a doll that was grubbier and much better loved than any of the other dolls in the room on Tamora’s lap. But Tamora didn’t reach for it and simply let it roll onto the floor. She said a single word: “Brownkin.” No inflection. She repeated it twice more.
Amelia sighed.
“Is something wrong? Can I help?” Aaron looked genuinely anxious to help, and not the least bit worried or puzzled, as another man might have when faced with a child who, under other circumstances, would be tied up like a captive animal in an expensive asylum. How was it that Randolph liked having him around so much? Randolph was nothing like him. At dinner Aaron had told her a bit of his own history: how he had been sent from Virginia to France to study when he came of age to fight in the war against the North, and that he had remained in Monsieur Hulot’s architecture studio for more than a decade. He thought it was a kind of serendipity that the commission from Randolph had arrived just when he was planning to return to Virginia to set up his own studio.
So he was in his thirties, like Randolph. In the soft light of the nursery he looked younger. In that same light, Randolph did not look young. Randolph was “wearing life hard,” as her father would say. As though his face were marking the occasional debauchery of his actions. This young man could be suspected of no debauch, she was certain.
What did Randolph admire in him? Probably his skill. Randolph was good at exploiting and using the skills of others.
“Tamora speaks?”
“Did Randolph tell you she did not?” She gave a little laugh and picked up the doll to put it back on a shelf. “She speaks when she wants to. Or at least she has a few words for the things she believes are very important. It started about a year ago.”
The Abandoned Heart Page 15
