The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  * * *

  The next week Wils told Helen that Robert Goodman had called with the terms of truce by which the city would drop its investigation into Wils’s shipyard visit. He was to leave within a fortnight, on a privately chartered boat, he said, as he watched her face darken.

  As they walked around the Charles, he promised that he would return to her as soon as he possibly could.

  She met his glance and, after a pause, asked, “Is there something I can do to help—like throw you in the river so you’ll be too sick to leave?”

  As she said the words, he looked down at her, his eyes filled with sadness and admiration, but he said nothing.

  “Wils, how is it that you’re so unlike other Prussians? You don’t long for war or Belgium—”

  “I did steal my cousin’s girl,” he offered.

  She laughed. “There is that, I suppose, but you’re different from the Germans I read about in the papers today. Professor Francke is different as well. But it seems there are so few of you who feel different, I fear for your country.”

  He shook his head. “I do too. The Prussians believe the laws are different for them—that they’re stronger, and can use that power to make Germany rank above all other countries.”

  “To what end?” she asked. “That’s what I want to know. What could possibly be worth all of this carnage?”

  He shook his head as he looked out to the water. “Things,” he said dully. “Others’ things. Power. Pride.”

  “And you? What made you different?”

  He gave a deprecatory laugh. “My father was a poet—a man who could pluck beauty from the air. He saw the unseen and wrote that there was more to life than what we could measure. I believe he was a great man. At least I thought he was.” He looked away from her down the bank to a group of young men launching a small boat into the water. One threw a rock at a pair of bickering squirrels. The animals turned and fled up a tall elm.

  Wils extended his arm to her, and the pair began to walk again. “Was he not a great man?” she asked, after a pause.

  “I can’t tell,” he said, his voice suddenly wavering. “You see, he died when I was young. And soon after, I began to forget him. It’s terrible. I can’t see him anymore in my mind—he has no form, no smell, no voice. He’s a portrait on a wall, not my father. Helen, it’s a terrible thing to forget the dead. Is it disloyal to forget one’s own father? What does that say about me as his only son?” He turned to her suddenly and held her arm tightly.

  “I won’t forget you, Wils,” she promised rashly.

  “You can’t mean that. It’s so easy to let those go who aren’t with us at any given moment. I didn’t mean to forget my father.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t promise. I promise that no matter what happens, I will not forget you and I will be faithful. Doesn’t your mother remember your father?”

  “No man could stand in his shadow,” he said bitterly. “There is no one for her to remarry. But men like my father have vanished, except for a few.” His voice trailed off as he, suddenly conscious of the grip on her arm, removed his hand. “They’ve been replaced by the Prussian war machine. It’s all power and things. There has to be something higher than that to live for.”

  “Do you think there is?”

  He nearly laughed. “Helen, of course I do. I’m my father’s son. But I’ve stopped reading philosophy for now. All I think of these days is you.”

  “Come now,” she said, a smile flickering in her eyes.

  “It’s true,” he said, turning back to her. “Helen, do you know what happens when I think of you?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Music. I hear music.”

  “The sound of a cuckoo clock?” she teased.

  “A psalm,” he said, in a tone that silenced her mirth. “I’m serious. It’s something about waiting patiently and finding—no, that’s not exactly right. It’s vague. It’s something about time and joy meeting.”

  “Is it everlasting?” she asked as he reached for both of her hands.

  “It feels like it must be. But I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Do you think of music?”

  “I think of color,” she offered.

  A glint of mischief appeared in his eyes. “Reliable Boston brown?”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “I see a beautiful yellow, blue, and white.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “A French kitchen? What about red?”

  “The color of sin? Not at all. My colors are crisp and vibrant: your hair, your eyes, your skin.”

  “Oh,” he said as his eyes widened in hope. He said nothing further, but knelt before her and covered her hand in kisses there at the river’s edge.

  Later that evening Ann looked at Helen from across the room at Longworth Hall. Her friend sat before a mirror combing her hair. She looked radiant in her white lace gown—the young woman she’d not seen in many months. Ann told her that she too would take up walking. It seemed to have done Helen’s spirits a world of good. She’d never seen her friend so happy.

  Helen smiled as she brushed out her long, dark hair, but she kept her secret.

  * * *

  The tenth of October was breezy and cool; the sky was gray, threatening storms. Helen suggested they not walk that day. Wils, noting that she was well dressed for such an outing with her wool shawl and long skirts, suggested a different path. Helen pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and followed reluctantly.

  He led her down to the banks of the river to a small wooden boat. “What is this?” she asked as the wind breezed up again.

  “A boat ride.”

  “On a day like this? Are you mad? You’ll exhaust yourself rowing.”

  “Won’t you help row?” He smiled.

  “You expect me to row?”

  “Such little faith in my manners,” he clucked and held her hand while she stepped into the craft and sat at one end.

  “I have faith in the wind,” she replied.

  “Helen, I did pick up a thing or two from rowing all those years with your brother,” he said, pushing them away from the bank with the edge of an oar. “A little faith, please.” With strong strokes he pulled to the middle of the river. His face reddened as he struggled. Helen thought him mad. The Charles River was slow, but the wind was not, and Wils had only recently recovered.

  In the middle of the river, the wind coursing above them, Wils suddenly pulled his oars in. “You’re right, rowing is hard work,” he said. “Your shawl, please,” he said.

  “You’re not going to dry that oar with my shawl, are you?” she warned as she handed it to him.

  “Does wool spot like silk?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Which is what?”

  “You’re trying to drown us—”

  “To stop your chatter?” Wils asked.

  “To silence words and ideas you don’t like to hear.”

  “Helen,” he said with a broad smile, “you sound just like me! And as you know, rough words for an idea don’t mean rough thoughts for a person. Now move to the middle.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To balance the boat. You’re the ballast we move around to get the right weight-bearing load in the—”

  “You’re calling me ballast?” she spluttered as the winds howled.

  “Other way. Sit with your back to the wind,” he said, as she menaced him with a stern look before she turned around. He ignored her and pulled a piece of twine from his pocket, knotting the top of the oar to her shawl, to her horror. He shifted behind her, putting his arms around her.

  “My shawl!”

  “Hold this,” he said, giving her the oar, and pulling the shawl around her. “Lean back now,” he said, pulling her toward him.

  “Mr. Brandl!”

  Wils p
ulled her back as the makeshift sail became taut. She finally leaned back into his arms and the sail carried them swiftly through the water. They laughed all the way down the river, gliding quickly now.

  “If I never row another stroke I’ll be perfectly happy,” he said, leaning up and suddenly kissing her cheek. “You’ll make an excellent ship’s mate.”

  “I’m better at mutiny,” she said, dipping her hand into the cold water and splashing him for good measure.

  After a good distance they came to a barren spot, where the buildings and cars were far away from the river’s edge. There he stepped out and splashed over to the bank, pulling the boat to dry land. He offered his hand and helped her out.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to a small embankment.

  She caught her breath. On the ground was a richly embroidered cloth dusted in rose petals. She looked at the fabric, so different from the brown of her shawl, and turned to him.

  “What’s this?”

  She walked to the cloth, pulled off her shoes, and stepped on it in her stocking feet. It was intricately patterned, with hues of greens and reds and blues bursting from it. In the center were two vines embroidered in gold, each wrapped around the other, their tendrils overlaying the letter W with an H.

  Wils cleared his throat. “The shipping lanes have cleared. I’m leaving in three days. I can’t hold you to a promise when I don’t know the future,” he said as she took in the tapestry. “It’s not honorable. But when I return I will ask you to marry me.”

  “What?”

  Helen turned to him, surprised to find him kneeling. She felt so much all at once: overjoyed, terrified, ecstatic, speechless.

  “I have no idea how long I’ll be gone. I don’t know much about where I’m going. But I couldn’t leave this shore if I didn’t let you know what is in my heart.”

  He took her hand and looked into her eyes.

  “My dearest Helen, will you marry me?” he asked. “I know this is quick, but it would make me the happiest man alive. And I promise to do everything in my power to be the best husband for you that I could possibly be.”

  She could not believe it—the moment she had been waiting for! She smiled at this wonderful man, this man she loved now, kneeling before her.

  “Oh, Helen, Die Liebe welche Gott geweiht, Die bleibet bis in Ewigkeit. The love, which God consecrates, abides for eternity,” he said tenderly as he kissed her hands. They were soft and small, and smelled of fresh flowers.

  In the wondrous moment she had still said nothing. Instead she knelt beside him, leaned toward him, and kissed his forehead gently.

  “The love, which God consecrates, abides for eternity,” she repeated. “Yes, I will marry you, Wils Brandl.”

  “Thank you!” He gave a big laugh and threw his arms around her hugging her tightly. She laughed with him.

  “Oh dear Helen, I am the happiest man alive,” he said. “May I kiss you?”

  She pulled back and looked into his eyes—eyes that danced with joy. “Yes. I mean, yes please.”

  As they kissed she felt every part of her come alive.

  He loved her! He saw her with all her passions, with all her faults, and yet he loved her! He delighted in how smart she was; that she was beautiful to him even though she did not have the looks of a Caroline Peabody. To him she was not part of a large, august family. She was not measured by her bank account. She was not judged by her mother’s actions. She was not part of New England or Radcliffe or anywhere.

  This man—for whom she cared so deeply—saw her and loved what he found. In his eyes, she was simply Helen.

  She realized she had harbored an empty place in her heart for too long. She had no idea how light and happy she would feel when she found the person with whom she might share her dreams, laughter, and life. What a poor imagination she had when comparing those pale dreams to the reality of Wils Brandl!

  “In Prussia I have a ring for you,” he murmured. “A sapphire as blue as your eyes.”

  “And a coronet?” she teased.

  “Well, yes, actually.”

  She gave a slight laugh. “I’ve no need of one. But—” She thought, then stopped. She reached for the satin ribbon in her hair. Taking the pearl ring from her finger, she threaded it through the satin, knotting one end. She kissed the pearl and draped the ribbon around his neck, tucking it in his shirt. “Keep this until you return from the war,” she said.

  “When I return,” he said softly, taking her in with his eyes.

  “My promise is binding,” she said. “You are what has been missing in my life. And I cannot let you leave my heart. This war will not change that or me.”

  “I will return,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer to him.

  “You must! I’ll be terribly sad if you don’t.”

  “Then it’s settled.” He gave a soft laugh as he kissed her again. “Besides, I can’t wait to take you to Germany! After the war of course.”

  She grinned, thinking about what fun it would be to explore Europe with the most delightful man her heart had ever encountered.

  * * *

  A cold rain began to fall as Wils walked Helen from his car up to the steps of Longworth Hall. He promised to call on her father as soon as possible to ask for his blessing. Not caring a whit for the rain, she glided into the building. Ann would be astonished at the news!

  “Miss Brooks! Your father—” Miss Sullivan called out.

  “Does he know?” Helen asked, surprised.

  “Know what?” the large woman said with a snort. “Don’t interrupt. Your father called to take you home. Your mother’s been arrested, again”—she emphasized the word in her ham-handed manner—“for giving safe haven to criminals. Your driver is picking you up in five minutes to meet your brother, who is already at City Hall. He said to pack for a few nights and meet him at the corner.” Miss Sullivan seemed almost delighted at the news.

  Helen walked upstairs, the color draining from her face. As she closed the door behind her she burst into tears. They flowed freely as she swiftly gathered her things into an evening bag—a notebook, brushes, a change of clothes.

  Not now. Wils was leaving. She couldn’t go.

  She took a deep breath, drying her tears on the back of her hand and dashing off a quick note to let Ann know where she was.

  She should be glad to be free of Radcliffe for now. After what happened on the river, the place suddenly felt too small for her, with Miss Sullivan below as her juvenile jailer.

  She was no longer a child to be moved by her mother’s or Miss Sullivan’s caprice. She was Wils Brandl’s wife.

  Chapter Twenty

  Merrimack Hill

  Lexington, Massachusetts

  Jonathan Edwards Brooks ordered his breakfast in the study that next morning. He was in no mood to talk. He seethed in his dark red lounging jacket in front of his study’s warm fire. He had a headache, and his headache had a name: Merriam Windship Brooks.

  An hour into his morning regimen he was still simmering, the peppery scent of his third cup of tea no balm for his troubled thoughts. He finally gathered the strength to look at the morning papers to read what shocks were in store for him today: war, wife, or other calamities.

  The top headline, as usual, was that the Europeans were killing each other in all sorts of brutal fashions. Why this still made headlines was unclear to him. For hundreds of years this had been going on: the Hundred Years’ War, the French Revolution, Napoleon. Every time you turned around, these people were killing each other, typically in the name of enlightenment, pride, or some God-given right to another man’s wine cellar.

  His eyes scanned the paper—a city boss’s son had run off to war to fight for the British. At least that news pushed Merriam’s story off the front page. Although she would probably complain about that t
oo. He could just hear her now. The Civil War delayed women’s suffrage and here men were, trumping up another war in order to delay a vote on women’s issues yet again.

  And so it went that the sun had climbed a fair way into the sky by the time Mr. Brooks actually cracked the shell of his hard-boiled egg. Just as he added a judicious pinch of pepper and opened his mouth to pop it in whole, he stopped, adjusted his pince-nez, and shook his head at a news story at the bottom of the page.

  Harvard Reiterates Regulations Regarding Rallies

  Harvard University has reiterated its restrictions against discussions of contentious political issues after this last month’s rally in Harvard Yard, led by Arnold Archer, son of influential congressional candidate Charles Archer (see related story, page 1). It was the third rally of this type since the kaiser invaded Belgium. Given that the rally fell immediately after a reading by Harvard’s Assistant Professor Charles Copeland, there was considerably less mayhem and drinking than accompanied the previous two rallies. However, many had copies of Candide, Copeland’s text that evening, and these they threw into a bonfire. Other books burned were by the German professors Kuno Francke and Hugo Munsterberg.

  The authorities immediately put out the fire, citing the hazardous combination of exuberance, spirits, fire, and political opinion.

  After an angry complaint from Professor Copeland, the Harvard Corporation reissued its 1912 regulation, which states, “The halls of the University shall not be open for persistent and systematic propaganda on contentious questions of contemporary social, economic, political, or religious interests.”

  The topic inflames passion on the campus. Harvard has seen almost as much attrition this fall as it did during the entire War Between the States. Officials have attributed the exodus of students to the ready availability of news reports regarding how the British are now engaged in some of the most exciting, honorable soldiering to have been available to students since Theodore Roosevelt, class of 1880, charged up San Juan Hill. (For related story, see front page: “Late-Breaking News: Son of Councilman Leaves for War; Sets Example for Youth of Today.”)