The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  * * *

  At Beck Hall, Burton made no attempt to stop her visit. He ushered her into Wils’s room along with the other visitors, informing her that Riley was gone for the day (to her relief) and Wils was asleep.

  Helen was greeted by Professor Copeland, and another man introduced as Professor Kuno Francke. They stood in the middle of the room, nodding at the hushed tones of the police officer’s report. The officer was a large man in girth and stature, his florid face animated by the conversation. Professor Francke, on the other hand, was reserved, tall and Germanic. On his nose sat a pair of round spectacles that seemed too small for his face. Perhaps it was the short bristly mustache that didn’t look like it belonged, but to Helen, he seemed like a young boy wearing a disguise.

  Copeland welcomed her. “Miss Brooks, I’m glad you came. Wils was calling for you.”

  “Really?” she asked too eagerly.

  Copeland looked at her askance.

  “How is he?” she said, attempting to frown disinterestedly.

  “Not terrible,” said Copeland in a low voice. “A knock to the head, some bruises. A scrape on the face. Riley Spencer was escorting two ladies home when—”

  The police officer gave a pointed look at Copeland.

  “What, Officer? They are ladies until proved otherwise. He was escorting some ladies home when he found Wils on the sidewalk. He talked to the police, then left about an hour ago to take care of some of Wils’s business.”

  Helen bit her tongue. Riley is seeing other women when he is supposed to be courting me? Thank goodness I didn’t fall for him.

  “May I see Wils?”

  “Of course. Please come with me.” As he put his hand on the glass doorknob, he turned to Helen. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

  “No,” she said as they went into the room.

  Wils’s room was dark and cool, its curtains pulled, and it smelled like camphor. She saw him resting on his bed, across from a large writing table. A small roll of bandage and powders cluttered a nightstand by him. A young nurse in a starched white uniform sat in the corner in a stuffed chair, reading by the light of a small night lamp. She looked up but didn’t move.

  Neither did Wils. Helen saw his face was scraped—perhaps where he’d fallen. He seemed to be breathing easily at least.

  “He’ll wake soon,” said Copeland in a whisper. “Have a seat.” He sat on a stool by Wils’s bed, offering her a large leather chair.

  “Spencer said Wils called your name as they were carrying him to his room. I’ve been asked to investigate for the college on a related matter.” Copeland put his hands on his balding pate. “Could you tell me what you know?”

  “I know a lot,” she said quietly, but with confidence. “I’m confident Arnold Archer did this. But I don’t know if that is what the college wishes to hear.”

  “We’ve no interest in sullying a three-hundred-year-old reputation for someone who can’t behave properly,” returned Copeland. He leaned toward her. “We don’t want the likes of Wils to be hurt for political matters. He’s a talented young man, Miss Brooks, although you mustn’t ever tell him I said so. It may corrupt him.” He sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. He no longer seemed the confident professor of last night. Instead he kept looking nervously over at Wils, as if he didn’t know what to do. He leaned toward her again. “But I am concerned. Wils doesn’t choose his friends well.”

  Professor Francke entered and Copeland rose to speak to him.

  “Charles,” said Francke, “I’m going to resign if Archer isn’t expelled. He must be made an example. Count Brandl is from a high-ranking German family. First von Steiger, now Brandl.”

  “You’ve threatened to resign just about every week since the war broke out.”

  “These aren’t manufactured grievances—”

  Wils suddenly gave a moan. “Helen?”

  Copeland and Francke abruptly halted their conversation. Copeland leaned over to Wils.

  “Wils, do you want to speak with Miss Brooks?”

  “Yes,” Wils whispered.

  Copeland looked at Helen and nodded.

  “Kuno, nurse, let’s speak in the living room. Mr. Brandl needs to speak with Miss Brooks.”

  They walked out. The professor left the door slightly open.

  Helen raced to him.

  “I should have listened to you, Helen. It’s not safe here,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “Is Europe at war safer?” she whispered back.

  He shook his head and winced. “Perhaps safer than sitting in the presence of a sharp-tongued Boston bluestocking.”

  She smiled. “Would another knock on your head civilize your speech?”

  “No chance,” he said with a slight smile. She caught the sparkle of his eyes before he closed them. “Thank you…for coming.” He lapsed into silence again.

  She looked at him sleeping: his blond hair mussed, his cheeks pale against the dark pillow. His shoulders—wide and muscled from rowing—twitched now and then, and his arm was carelessly draped over the side of the bed.

  She was struck by his handsome profile, as if she were looking at him for the first time.

  She reached for his hand to arrange it by his side. His hand was large, easily able to encompass hers. She held it for a moment.

  “What are you doing, Helen?” came a clipped British accent.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Riley Spencer

  Beck Hall

  Helen turned and saw Riley standing in the doorway, his hand cradling a badly bruised eye. His forearm was bandaged with gauze, and dark spatters stained his white shirt. His tie was loose at the collar, his dark hair was uncombed. He looked like he’d not slept.

  “What happened, Riley?”

  He shook his head. “Not in front of Wils.”

  She stepped quickly outside and Riley closed the door behind them.

  “I took care of some things.”

  “Archer?”

  “They’ll have a deuce of a time cleaning him up.”

  She swallowed.

  “It seems we both were taking care of Wils,” he said irritably. “Only I at least have a reason to do so, seeing as Wils belongs to my family.”

  She said nothing in reply.

  Riley sniffed. “Do you know that Wils and I are leaving for war?”

  Helen paled. “When?”

  “Soon.” He shrugged. His jaw tensed as he looked over to one side. She thought she caught a lipstick mark on his collar as well.

  “Miss Brooks, I understand some news has reached you,” he said in a quiet voice when he caught her looking there. “Some news that may have made you think less of me these past couple of days. May I speak plainly?”

  She nodded.

  “There is a woman who has told many of my friends that she is to be married to me. Your brother Peter believes I’m engaged.”

  “Are you?” she asked, but she felt like a fraud as soon as she spoke. Even if he had no fiancée, she wouldn’t care for him, especially with such damning evidence on his shirt.

  He shook his head. “The truth is that I am not. I’ve made it clear to this woman that I never asked her to marry me and don’t intend to marry her. I think a young man named Lawrence is really the person she will end up marrying. I needed you to hear and to know this.”

  Riley stepped over to her, sat down, and took her hands. His felt rough and cold compared to Wils.

  “Helen, I’d like to talk with you about our future. I’m going—”

  “I’m grateful for your kindness and I don’t wish to hurt your feelings,” she interrupted pulling her hands back. “But we have no future.”

  His face darkened. “Oh come now. What do you mean? You kissed me!”

  “You kissed me, as I recall. And in a rather ungentlemanl
y move, you didn’t ask how or whether I’d like it. If you had I would have said no. I made a mistake, Riley. I am sorry, but I’m not in love with you.”

  “Nonsense. I know it may take some time, Helen. I’m not an easy man to live with, although I assure you that that will change. I had—I just—I mean, in between now and the time I leave, I’d hoped we could continue to grow our acquaintance, our relationship. I had counted on it, in fact.”

  “Mr. Spencer—”

  “Please!” He grinned. “You felt something at the dance. Tell me you didn’t and I’d call it a lie. You were happy then, Helen. What’s different now? A piece of mistaken information?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m just—just—” She searched for the right word.

  His smile evaporated. “Don’t lie to me,” he said.

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “Well, you did, and here I am.” He stood up and paced before her, with a belligerent air of victimhood.

  “Riley, I’m sorry to hurt you, but I cannot return your feelings. I-I’m so sorry,” she stammered, standing up. “I wish I had been candid. I didn’t mean to—”

  He held his hands up to stop her from talking.

  How had she of all people been able to wound him? Wasn’t he the one who littered the dance halls with broken hearts? “Riley, I don’t think that—”

  “I am at the very least honest about who I am. I’m not engaged, contrary to what some may say. I also don’t go kissing people by accident. And I thought I would at least make that plain.”

  Helen blushed. As she struggled for words, she saw that his emotions, so evident a few moments ago, suddenly became hidden by a careless look. He turned away. There was nothing further to say.

  “It’s best if you just leave,” he said, almost bored.

  She turned on her heel and walked out, through the hall, past the professors and Mr. Burton, fighting back tears.

  “Miss Brooks!” she heard Burton call. “You forgot your shawl!” She swallowed, thanked the hall master quietly, turned, and left. She didn’t know which was worse: causing the pain, as Riley had accused her of, or living with it, as he supposedly was (though she had her doubts about how long that would last). She assumed the former, but, in truth, preferred neither.

  Wils would hear of this, she was certain. Riley would tell him and that would be the end of their friendship as well.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Soon—perhaps very soon—they would all be gone: Riley and Wils. They would leave for war, and she’d have to live without them. Especially Wils.

  As she began to walk home she burst into tears. She couldn’t bring herself to return to Longworth Hall. Wiping her eyes with the back of her glove, she turned and walked toward the Charles River. It was quiet along that path. A vigorous walk might clear her head.

  * * *

  The Charles was a notoriously slow river, its water brown from steeping in the wetlands surrounding it. While carriages and cars busied themselves on either side of the banks, the river itself seemed to absorb and swallow the sound from the roads. Its dirt paths were wide enough for the myriad of daily visitors: wandering students, nannies pushing strollers, young boys bicycling, and the beggars who slept on carpet bits under the graceful Georgian bridges that arched from the banks of Cambridge into the wilds of Allston. Squirrels ran up the large elm and oak trees, which at the river’s narrowest parts stretched their limbs out to gossip with their counterparts across the river. Under their spreading branches sprang rushes and daylilies, and an occasional spot of beach to dock a boat or to watch the fours and eights as they skimmed past to the rhythm of the coxswain’s call.

  But Helen barely looked at the trees or the water as she marched around the Charles River that day or the next. Instead of watching the autumn sun glisten on the water or the fours and eights gliding by, or listening to the wind whisper through the leaves, she thought of Riley and still felt hurt and irritated. On the third day it came to her. The problem wasn’t Riley. It was really Wils.

  Wils—the caustic, blunt young man—he knew her in a way she felt no one else did there. She liked him: the poetry, the reading, the advice regarding her mother, the little half smile he gave her.

  But he wouldn’t seek her out anymore, she was sure. Whatever Riley told his cousin about the incident when he woke up could hardly be flattering.

  That night she confided her troubles to Ann, but her friend had no words of comfort. Ann advised her to keep the revelation of her feelings between just them, and away from her overly protective brother. In this Helen needed no instruction. She wished to leave all public professions to her mother.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Charles River

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Late September

  Wils walked into Copeland’s Boylston Hall classroom a week after the attack. His face was pale and drawn, and when he turned to sit in his wooden chair, he turned slowly, as if the pain had not left him. He gruffly nodded to Helen as he walked in amid the murmurs of his classmates.

  Classroom numbers had dwindled again, such that Copeland gave everyone ample time to discuss the (de)merits of modern verse. But when it came time for Wils to speak, he waved the professor off. In a rare act of charity, Copeland assented and moved on.

  At the end of class young men crowded around Wils to speak to him. Helen looked at the group of intent faces, peppering Wils with questions, then picked up her things to leave quietly. As she walked to the door, she heard chairs shuffle behind her and Wils called out her name.

  “Miss Brooks! Wait,” he said in a hoarse voice, untangling himself from the crowd and walking to her. He seemed thin, his dark jacket hanging loose across his shoulders. Yet his eyes gleamed, and without a hint of distance.

  “I wanted to thank you for visiting.”

  She looked away from him. “The ensuing argument with your cousin was hardly a reason for thanks.”

  Wils nodded and they lapsed into silence.

  “Are you all right?” he asked at length. “Because, you see, I don’t think you did anything wrong in refusing him. I’d hate that you stay away because of Riley. It gives him entirely too much say in our lives, and God knows he has enough to say already.”

  She smiled.

  “Wils, do you want to come watch the practice?” called Dane, walking with Marvin Elken.

  Wils shook his head. “A few other things going on, Dane.”

  “Does it involve a pretty skirt?” called Marvin, laughing and walking out the door.

  “Why, yes, I believe it does,” Wils called back as Helen turned a bright pink.

  “Miss Brooks,” he said as Marvin left the classroom, “I hear you’ve taken to walking down by the river. I was hoping to join you this afternoon.” His tired eyes smiled at her.

  She looked at him in surprise and smiled. “You feel up to a walk?”

  “My doctor said some fresh air would be good,” he said as they walked out the classroom door.

  They left the construction of Harvard Yard, passed the congestion of shops and private dormitories in Harvard Square, and made their way to the banks of the Charles, walking north along the river. They spoke of events of the day—of Wils leaving the crew team, the fury of Copeland’s edicts about Archer’s rally, the battle raging at the Marne in France—while they strolled down a path and onto one of the river’s bridges. At its crest, he stopped and rested against the wall.

  “Would you like to know how Riley’s doing?” he said, looking at the people walking along the far shore.

  “How is he?” she asked warily.

  Wils shook his head. “He’s spent most of the past week in despair.”

  She looked away. “I’m very sorry to be the cause of it.”

  “You needn’t worry, the Dudevant twins are helping him recover.”

 
; “Twins?”

  “We each handle grief in our own way and Riley likes the dual support,” he said, turning to her with a half smile. “But take some comfort. At least in this case it’s not disloyalty on his part, which for Riley is, well, rare. I know that because he’s often on the couch moaning about how you were the angel who was going to convert him from a wastrel into a good man.”

  “That’s God’s job,” she said with a look of exasperation.

  “Yes, but who will help God? He’ll need it.”

  They both laughed. She looked at him, and shook her head. “Regardless, I made a mistake.”

  “As did I.” He shook his blond hair from his eyes as he looked at her intently.

  “What mistake did you make?”

  “I listened to him tell me about how wonderful you are. And between that and our growing acquaintance, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said softly. “I don’t mean to startle you by saying this, but time is now short for me here. I have tried, and tried, and tried to forget you, but I’ve failed. And in truth, Helen, I don’t want to just think of you. I don’t want to walk with you just today, but tomorrow, and the next, and the day after that. I know I have no right to ask this, but I had to find out if I might at least hope before I left, that, if I return, you might hear me out.”

  Her lips parted in surprise as he continued.

  “I’m so sorry. Honor should prevent me from asking you, but I had to know,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers as he spoke.

  “Yes,” she said, a smile springing to her lips. “A thousand times yes.”

  He closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.” In a moment he opened them and, seeing her still there, gave a joy-filled laugh. “Come, Helen,” he said with a charming new boldness, offering his arm. “Come with me. Let’s walk a bit farther before we have to go back. It gets dark so early these days.”

  She put her hand on his arm, and as he covered it with his own, she looked away, unable to contain her smile.

  Each afternoon they walked together, at times arm in arm and at times at a distance. Some days they spoke of Wils’s home in Prussia and his duty to his country. Other days, of her ideas for a poem or Copeland’s latest reading. And others about nothing in particular. It was those times that their laughter was most easy and their hearts at peace. But the days grew short. As Wils’s strength increased, the call of home grew more difficult to honorably resist.