Helen’s eyes lit up as they turned the corner and the building came in sight. Here was her home for the next few years, and she was to be a student not only at Radcliffe but at Harvard studying under the famous Professor Copeland. Finally she had a bona fide mentor to help her reach her potential. With such a guide what could she not do? She would explore writers from Aristophanes to Mallarmé; learn the craft of writing from the man who trained New York’s finest editors; wrestle with the great minds of her age. She could become anything she set her hat to becoming: an author, a poetess! She’d give readings at the public library and talk with schoolchildren. A car would drive her to New York City to read her works before crowds. She’d take a train to speak in lecture halls in St. Louis and San Francisco. In her mind’s eye, and modesty often prevented her from admitting this even to herself, she hoped that if she were truly diligent and careful and terribly lucky, she’d end up with a bust in the Boston Athenaeum, Boston’s most prestigious library. Today, here and now, Helen would take her first step toward that marble quarry from which authors’ statues were hewn.
Longworth Hall was a tall redbrick building with bright marble trim and a granite foundation. Its entryway and sidewalks were filled with young women in summer hats talking in groups of threes and fours. Matrons stood by their cars directing the unloading, and haggard men walked in and out of the building carrying hefty trunks and boxes of books.
They spotted Peter sitting by the steps, in his straw boater, navy jacket, and starched brown trousers, surrounded by women.
“Peter,” Patrick called from the car, “hurry it up! Your father says I’m to return and drive him to the Adams funeral.”
Peter nodded and waved to the three thin, sallow-faced youths who started unloading Helen’s bags. “Helen, get your key from Miss Sullivan in the foyer. They’ll take your things to your room.”
“Is Riley Spencer here?” she asked, looking for the young man from the night before.
“No. Just get your key and we’ll meet you inside.”
She frowned, disappointed, as she walked into the foyer. Riley had said he’d be there.
The entryway was stifling hot and so packed with people—women calling to each other, girls fumbling with keys, fathers with maps—that it was nearly impossible to locate the front desk at the other end. Helen waded through the crowd to the desk and met a large woman with a wide face, bright cheeks, and a mop of curls. This must be the stout housemistress, Miss Maureen Sullivan, a formidable woman with some reputation of prosecuting offenders.
“Good afternoon, Miss Brooks,” Miss Sullivan said, turning to retrieve a key from the boxes behind her. “Please sign for your key,” she said, presenting her with three forms. Sweat beaded Miss Sullivan’s upper lip, but she stood there without fanning herself. “Do you know the rules?”
“Your letter said to keep telephone calls to a minimum, curfew is at eleven, and—” Helen was jostled by a parent.
“Mrs. Jameson, I’ll be right there,” called Miss Sullivan in a loud voice before turning back to Helen. “No fussing with the portraits and no men in your room after tomorrow. We don’t want any problems.” Miss Sullivan furrowed her brow as she looked past Helen again. “I see your brother by the steps. He’ll be knowing the rules,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Captain of the crew team or no. Now, call if you have trouble, but don’t expect me to come running. It’s moving day and we’re busy. Next!” And with a wave of her hand, Miss Sullivan dismissed her.
“Your room is this way,” Peter called from the steps. “I scoped it out.” He picked up a box and started up the steps.
“Miss Sullivan seems to know you,” she called.
“I can’t hear you,” he said in a loud voice as they walked up the steps. As they turned the corner, a young boy with a heavy stack of newspapers nearly crashed into them.
“Sorry,” the boy said, juggling his papers. His face was smudged with ink.
“What’s the rush?” Peter asked.
“Special edition of the Crimson for the upstairs parlor,” he said. Peter’s eyes widened as he looked at the headline. The young man gave him a copy and was off.
“Maximilian von Steiger murdered and Arnold Archer arrested!” he read aloud. The color drained from his face
“What is it?” asked Helen. “Who is von Steiger?”
He shook his head and waved to the young men who were holding Helen’s boxes.
Helen unlocked the door to her room. Peter walked right past her into the dark room, and he seemed to know exactly where everything was. He opened the heavy curtains, pushed open the window, and ignoring the rest of the crew, began to read his paper. “Insanity,” she heard him whisper.
He didn’t even look up as the young porters walked in with her bags. Helen directed the young men to put the boxes in the middle of the floor. As they dropped her boxes on the braided rug, a puff of dust billowed out. Helen wrinkled her nose.
Peter looked up from the paper. “Thanks, men. I’ll see you in an hour at the boathouse.” They left.
Peter didn’t move to help her, so Helen walked over to him and craned her neck to read the details of the story.
She had never heard of the young man who’d died, and the details were difficult to puzzle through. Archer, the son of a powerful city boss in Boston, claimed that von Steiger, a German, was a spy who had hung himself on his ship when confronted with his infamy. Yet Archer had been found with a gold watch belonging to the victim’s friend. There was also no suicide note. And Archer had been in a public fight right before von Steiger’s death, where he’d threatened to kill the young man for not renouncing Germany.
A frustration and irritability crept under Helen’s skin. This young man had died tragically. She felt sorry for the dead young man. And yet, if he was a spy, it was better to lose him than a thousand men at sea. And if he was going to be a willing soldier as the article implied, then that was one more soldier the Belgians wouldn’t have to fight at the front. But if he were innocent, the death was awful—a life cut short for terrible reasons. There were so many horrific, unintended consequences of war.
Sadness colors life, Helen thought. After reading the article, the walls’ cheerful white molding lost some of its gloss. The two desks, bookshelves, and redbrick fireplace, she decided, were a bit shabby for such a new building but acceptable. The large braided rug would have to go, however. She gave it a stamp and more dust puffed out. Miss Sullivan would definitely have to call for a maid.
She sighed and tried to summon back the happiness she had just been feeling moments before but couldn’t. She was flummoxed. Perhaps there were only so many extreme emotions a daughter of New England could be expected to experience in one morning, she thought.
Peter shook his head, put down the paper. After a few moments he said, “An outrage.”
“Did you know the victim?” she asked, setting a stack of books on her desk shelf.
He shook his head. “Not well, but I do know Archer. He’s a smooth sort, the kind I stay well clear of. He’s always licking President Lowell’s boots and cozying up to professors and the like. It’s said he gets whatever he wants because his father is quite powerful. You know Arnold’s father, Charles Archer, is the Boston city councilman giving Mother a hard time.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Charles Archer would like to run for a higher post. He wants to show he’s fit for public office. I’m surprised that his son could even be arrested. They must have powerful evidence.”
“So the police must think Archer killed the German?”
“I’m not sure at all,” Peter said as he walked to a box, opened it up, and pulled out a few books for Helen. “It only says that yesterday they found a watch on Archer that belonged to Wils Brandl, oddly.”
She frowned. “Wils? The young man at the dance?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot you’d met him.”
“I have,” she said. “Churlish and German and—”
He held up his hands. “Stop right there. I’ll not hear it about Wils. He is ten times the man his cousin Riley is—who you were quite keen on dancing with. Wils is a gentleman of the finest sort. But as for Max, except for the watch, it could have been a suicide. He was quite upset about a girl who left him. Max and another crewmate of ours, Jackson Vaughn, have been in some sick contest about who was more suicidal over losing their girl. Max seems to have won.”
“Max loved a girl enough to kill himself?”
“Possibly,” said Peter testily. “He is, after all, dead. Something killed him.”
She waved him off. “Really, Peter. Do you see Mother or Father killing themselves if one of them walked away? I would rather think that they’d enjoy the time apart.”
“Goodness, Helen! What is the matter with you? You’ve never been in love like he was. His girl left him and he was inconsolable. Wils told me he could barely get out of bed after it happened.”
“What happened?” came a voice from the door. Ann Lowell stood at the door carrying a round toile-covered hatbox tied with a white organza bow. Helen and Peter turned swiftly.
“Miss Lowell!” said Peter, his countenance completely changed. He walked past Helen quickly and took the box from Ann’s arms. “I thought you were at the Adams funeral,” he said gently.
She smiled prettily back at him. Her golden hair was tied up with a black bow and fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Her skin was perfectly white, and contrasted with the black lace on her formal Sunday dress. As she smiled, she lifted her almond-shaped eyes and gazed adoringly at Peter. The look helped remind Helen that it was now her Christian duty to be happy about being a distant second in her best friend’s affections.
“The funeral was quickly over and my parents wanted to leave for Maine for a week. So I came early,” said Ann.
She turned to Helen and her eyes suddenly widened. “Is that a new ring?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Helen, walking over and showing Ann her hand. “Father gave it to me this morning.” Peter hadn’t even noticed. What Ann saw in him was completely beyond Helen. Now that she and Ann lived together, perhaps they could be as close as they used to be, before Peter decided Helen’s best friend should be his.
“I wish I’d kept my men to help move you, Ann,” interrupted Peter.
“Thank you, Peter,” she said, her cheeks dimpling. “I thought I would need more help, but I met a member of your crew team outside.”
“Cheers!” came a British accent from the hallway, and it was Helen’s turn to smile. Riley Spencer walked in, carrying a large steamer trunk that he set down by one of the stuffed chairs. She noticed he was pale and his tie was loose. He looked harried. “Sorry I’m late. I must have written down the wrong time,” he said with a glare at Peter. “Jackson Vaughn said he was given a different time than you told me this morning.”
“Jackson didn’t show up either. He’s all right, is he?” asked Peter.
“No, he’s not. Jackson is still despondent. He’s having nightmares. But he’s not as bad as Wils today. Or Max,” said Riley quietly.
“What’s wrong with Wils?”
“Terrible headache.” He lowered his voice. “Too much champagne.”
Peter winced. “Champagne headaches are the worst. Terrible business, all.” The two men nodded.
“Would you help Ann?” Peter asked after a respectful pause.
“Of course,” said Riley. “But I just need to catch my breath after bringing up this heavy steamer trunk. Be down in a second.”
Peter offered Ann his arm, and turned to give Helen a concerned look before he shut the door. The pair sat in silence for a minute as Riley caught his breath. Helen noticed he had little of the cheer he’d brought to the dance.
“Riley, I’m sorry about the loss of von Steiger,” said Helen after some length. “Did you know him well?”
He shook his head. “My cousin, Wils, was his friend back in Germany. Von Steiger’s father acted as Wils’s father after Wils’s own father had died. Wils’s father had been a great poet and a good man. My cousin felt his loss keenly.”
Helen was confused. “How are you cousins with Mr. Brandl? I thought you were British.”
“My mother is German. Her formidable sister is Wils’s mother.”
“How is Wils dealing with the news?”
“I don’t know. Things have been nasty since we came back from summer holiday, but we thought it would pass. And now I’m not certain. I’m a bit concerned, not least because I live with Wils and a murderer is on the loose.” He set his jaw and shook his head. “Damned unpleasant business.” Riley peered into an open box on the table beside him. “What is this?” he asked, lifting out a volume. “Little Women. What’s that about?”
“A family of sisters whose father is at war.”
“Do you like it?”
“Every woman does.”
“Should every man?”
“I don’t know any man who has read it.” She laughed, watching him fidget with the book.
“Perhaps the girls find their peace,” Riley said, then shivered as if shaking off a bad thought. He put the book back and paced nervously. “We all are called to find our own peace when war intrudes so on our lives.” He walked over to her window seat and looked out. “An excellent window,” he said, his eyes suddenly lighting up. “You could put a ladder up here and escape anytime you needed to.”
She felt her cheeks go pink. “There will be no ladders of any kind put under that window.”
He gave a soft laugh and looked back. “Miss Brooks, from the looks of it I’ve arrived too late to be of use in hauling your boxes, and I’ve no interest in Miss Lowell’s—”
Before he could finish his sentence, they heard steps pounding in the hallway. Into the room burst Miss Sullivan, her large face red, her curls untamed and hostile.
“Riley Spencer!”
“Miss Sullivan.”
The woman’s small dark eyes darted around the room. “I heard you were in the building.”
“I was just leaving.”
“I’ll not have you here, not even for moving day.” She gave Helen a stern look. “Miss Brooks, your grandmother and mother would probably prefer you kept your moving to your own family.”
Helen’s face went bright red. “He’s doing me a great favor, Miss Sullivan, as my own brother seems to have left me here. I’ve a problem returning rudeness for kindness.”
“I’m sure you do, Miss Brooks,” she said, her hands on her ample hips. “But you don’t know his history. After today, no men are allowed in Longworth Hall.” She poked a meaty finger at him and glared. “Especially not you. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly,” said Riley. He returned her contemptuous glare. “Miss Brooks, perhaps we will continue our conversation at a different time.”
“Wait, Riley—”
“Let him go,” said Miss Sullivan, standing in front of Helen as Riley walked out the door. “You’ll not be seen with that young man as long as I have something to say about what goes on under this roof. If I see him back here, I’ll be obliged to write your father. He’s no good for a woman like yourself.” She turned on her heel and left the room.
Helen was aghast. How rude! How could someone do such a thing in polite company? He’d done nothing wrong, and yet he’d been treated abominably. Her frustration over everything—her fear of class, the murder-suicide, even the dusty carpets—erupted into defiance.
She ran to her window and saw Riley below, walking to the curb. “Riley, wait!” she called. “Riley!”
He looked up and around, then waved. “Miss Brooks? Do you need a ladder after all?”
She laughed. “Would you like to come to the Harvest Festival this Saturday in Concord?”
; “Is it any fun?” he asked.
“There’s a car race and I’ve been asked to be one of the drivers.”
“A race?” He beamed. “I’d be delighted to come. We’ll take my cousin’s car.”
“Will we have to take your cousin?”
“Most certainly! I promise you’ll like him. See you then.” He waved, turned, and walked down the street.
She brought her head back inside.
“Good God, Helen!” said Peter from the doorway. He strode over to the window and shut it. “Have you none of the sense the good Lord gave you? Riley Spencer’s an engaged man.”
Chapter Five
Beck Hall
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Sunday Afternoon
The news of von Steiger’s death and Arnold Archer’s arrest electrified the campus, spreading throughout residence hall lounges, from student to student, and in quiet murmurs among the staff. Wils had found a fresh broadsheet in the foyer of Beck Hall. He was shocked to find that the evidence that had forced the police to arrest Archer was his (Wils’s) very own gold watch, one that he’d lent to Max. But he frowned as he read the rest of the Crimson’s report, filled as it was with innuendo and anti-German accusations.
It sickened him to see that Archer’s family was launching something called a Patriots’ League in order to help the government identify other German spies. He hoped the police wouldn’t fall for such a ruse.
He opened the door to his apartment and walked straight to his room. He threw the newspaper in the trash can. Max—a German spy, indeed! What filth.
At least Arnold had been arrested. Despite Copeland’s protests about all of Arnold Archer’s family’s power, it seemed that the privileged were not above the law. Some justice might prevail in New England after all was said and done.
Wils sat down at a thick oak table opposite his bed under a tall arched window and opened his books to get to work. If he were forced to leave classes due to the war, he preferred to withdraw with high marks. He didn’t want his classmates snickering about the stupid German among them. Most of his assignments were not difficult, they just required doing. The only one that really required thought was a poem for Professor Copeland’s seminar on advanced editing, and he’d found his topic.
The End of Innocence Page 6
