Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen)

by Sarah Scheele

  The drill of the doorbell sounded through the house. Myrtle had gone upstairs to telephone Mr. Rivers (old Mr. Rivers, as rumor had it!) about visiting in the next few days. At the sound of the door, her high heels clicked down the stairs. “Faye? Can you get that?”

  “Oh, sure. Is your fiancé coming soon?” Faye inquired innocently.

  Myrtle stood before the hall mirror, adjusting her blouse. Startled, she turned and fixed her pale eyes on Faye as if not fully seeing her. “Huh? Who?”

  “Mr. Rivers. He is your fiancé. I mean, I believe,” Faye added. Come on, you’re college-educated. Surely you’ll know whether or not you’re engaged to someone.

  Myrtle waved a hand negligently “Oh, sure, but not today. I just rang him twenty minutes ago. He’s in Florida now, and how far away do you think that is?” She shook her head mockingly. “Faye, really.”

  The conversation died as exclamations rose from the hall. BeBe squealed excitedly as she led the whole party in a flood into the living room where Faye was waiting. Chatter was brisk and easy. It seemed the Carters did not suffer from being hard to relate to after all.

  “Don’t let Ed get a word in, or he’ll never stop talking about himself,” Myrtle said as she ushered Miss Carter into the room. “I would never be attracted to him even if he weren’t my brother, Miss Carter.”

  Faye hadn’t expected the two to look much like Bat, since they were only partly related to her friend. But she was startled at how opposite they appeared. Both were very dark, unlike the strawberry-blonde Bat, and slender in a contrast to her plumper figure. But it was in their personalities that the difference really lay. Bat had always been a nervous person and seemed even more so these days. The Carters were the reverse. Horace was undersized and bone thin, with a huge smile and a narrow face that seemed to exist only as a support for the smile. But that didn’t matter. He had an immediate primal quality, a powerful confidence that exuded off him like a scent and flashed out of his small, crinkled eyes. A power to make women forget themselves, drop all their pretenses, and embrace the inner nature of their psychology. One of nature’s born sheiks. She’d almost never seen any man who had such an effect on the ladies except for Ed. Is that why I feel so immune? I suppose Ed got me used to it. Imperceptibly inured by his corrosive vanity, I guess.

  Helene Carter took off her coat to reveal a sparkling, almost transparent top and a glimmering necklace. “Please call me Helene! I can’t bear to be called Miss Carter. It’s just rubbing all my old boyfriends into my face. Every time I’m called ‘Miss’ someone is kindly there to remind me that I’ve missed out.”

  There was general laughter. Ed and Grover immediately competed to pull out chairs for her. Helene looked much like her brother and was very slender, with thin, disheveled hair cut to be frayed at the ends like fringe. Her mouth had an unusual overbite she shared with Horace, and she had large blue eyes. She was also the embodiment of hose and possessed a cutting-edge tendency to sit sideways so she was draped around her chair. Soon everyone was quite comfortable. BeBe snuggled right in beside Horace on the sofa, giggling to make it look accidental, and Myrtle took the seat on the other side of him. Faye sat with Bat, who was obviously waiting for a good moment to introduce her old friend to the newcomers.

  “Have you seen Conquest?” Helene said, settling herself as Ed offered her a drink. “Oh, thanks so much, you’re a doll. One of Garbo’s best performances. Better than Camille, I think.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Myrtle said promptly. “I do love Garbo, she’s amazing. And we’ve read Gone with the Wind, of course. . .”

  Helene gulped, eager to speak. “Oh, that book kept me up all night! Mrs. Mitchell is one of our best writers. And I do mean just writers, of course. Horace always chimes in with his two cents about how I should say ‘female’ writers, and I just tell him, ‘you’re the one who’s obsessed with “females,” not I. I’m actually reading the story.’”

  “And then we go on arguing and I win,” Horace said, enormous mouth flashing. “Once I start talking about the content of those books she’s actually reading.”

  Helene flushed. “Open-mindedness is all the rage these days, I’ll admit. Nobody’s uncomfortable with the facts of life anymore, even in England. Not that I would ever have been uncomfortable with them, anywhere.”

  Ed lounged his long limbs on the nearby stool, which was too small for him. He looked like a giant on it. I bet Helene will fall like a trout for you and your long legs and your disarming arrogance.

  “Well, you’re quite intelligent,” he contributed.

  Helene’s eyes flashed. “Why, thank you! I will say, I feel a woman’s mind is not substantially different from what Freud says, but there’s a little more of it. Inhibition gives many layers to the subconscious, you know. After all, we’re not afraid to speak about these things now. But I didn’t come here to talk scientifically about that,” she finished, crossing her legs. “It’s much too heavy until at least the third time after you meet friends. Isn’t there some rule like that?”

  There was a delighted gasp. She had used the word scientifically! What a very clever person. A visible thrill passed through them at their good fortune in meeting the Carters.

  “Prudishness is the worst,” Myrtle sighed languidly. “It’s like a curse around here. So many people just act childish.”

  “I love the Amazon. I’d like to go there some day,” BeBe piped up. “It’s where my soul is.”

  “Where your soul is?” Horace remarked. “I’m sorry, is it somewhere past your outsides? That would explain why I overlooked it. I tend to get stuck there.”

  “Why, you awful man!” BeBe giggled, slapping him. “Helene Carter, you didn’t tell me your brother was horrible!”

  Helene took a sip of wine. “I thought it was obvious.”

  The conversation drifted to various topics—Mary Pickford’s retirement, the American economy (very lightly touched on), the wonderful leadership of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Only Horace countered against the general worship of him, saying his creation of endless committees was a fast-fix strategy like sweeping lint under a rug. Ed showed some interest and took the opposing point of view, seeking to draw Horace out. Their conversation was lively, masculine, and punctuated by logical banter. Faye was impressed by Horace’s strong perceptions. He’d make a good politician. Myrtle and BeBe, on either side of him, bit their lips and laughed when Ed did, pretending to understand. Faye thought Horace seemed conscious of it and supposed most men must have such feelings about the women around them. So few women could follow a man into all his arenas.

  After dinner Dan Halwell, Ed, and Helene discussed various casual topics of popular culture. The others, only pretending interest at first, became engrossed when the conversation veered to hypothetical colonies on Mars. Faye preferred to have her feet planted firmly on the soil of this planet and merely watched instead of speaking.

  “ . . . so in this elite colony on Mars, the intellectuals and visionaries would use the limitless resources of outer space to create a perfect world,” Ed was saying. “All resources would go to colony cultivation units and food. Nothing wasted, no bureaucratic corruption—none of the layers of past mistakes that clog our present day social systems. And we will all be nude.”

  Helene choked on her drink. “Wait, what?”

  Faye sighed and played with her hands. She knew Ed was only being humorous, most likely trying to get Helene’s attention. Silly talk of the benefits of nudism (along with everything else natural) had been going around in intellectual circles among people with time on their hands and no real idea what they were saying. Ed had picked up some of that jargon at college. He didn’t mean any harm. But still . . .

  Ed enlarged, in spite of Dan’s cautionary glance. “Of course. It’s outer space. It’s the galactic unknown. It’s the boundless worlds on which we will make our mark. Why would we wear clothes?”

  Helene looked dubious. “Well . . .”

  “What is
clothing, but a result of centuries of habits, Earth habits? It’s anthropologically evident. Those in a society with practically no traditions and no culture—like some savages—wear almost nothing. Those smothered in layers of traditions like the French Court wear carpets of cloth and cream sauce in their hair. In outer space there are no such traditions. No one has ever been there before. So we will be nude.”

  Dan raised a finger. “Intellectually very sound, but surely we could bring some civilization with us? We’re supposed to advance out there, not start over.”

  Ed was adamant. “That defeats the purpose of space. In that primitive place all the traditions of Earth will be tested and discarded. We will tear away props and see the essential Man, in all his apish deformity and in all his universal egregiousness. And how can we do that unless he’s naked?”

  Helene sipped her hot chocolate. To her the essential Man standing on trial on Mars was quite remote and rather uncongenial. She very much doubted the essential Woman would be part of that picture. “Well, I’m sticking with space suits. Besides, isn’t it going to be cold on Mars?”

  Dan tactfully steered the subject away. Faye saw Bat beaming beside her. It was clear Bat greatly admired her husband’s ability to talk about the most sensitive things without compromising himself.

  When the dialogue shifted to the Carters’ travels—it seemed they had only made one brief visit to Europe, really just to oblige some friends—Helene admitted she’d been a little impressed by the medieval grandeur of Westminster Abbey. Mr. Halwell instantly broke in.

  “You like cathedrals? I knew you would,” he said. “I can see you like beautiful things. Things that speak to us of God.”

  His voice was earnest. Helene paused, as if nonplused by this analysis of her character. “Well . . . if God is near something I like, I suppose I don’t mind that, exactly. But I never look for Him.”

  He took her hand. “That’s why He finds you. He favors people who have a cavalier attitude to Him. He’s like a man. He loves a challenge.”

  For a minute Helene seemed a little touched—or was it merely startled? But then she pulled away. “Really? Well, then he’s not like any man I know. Men like it easy. They hate work. Horace, for instance, hates work. Have you ever tried to pick up an unconscious man? That’s like trying to move Horace to do anything.”

  “I heard that,” Horace remarked, grin flashing as he turned from Myrtle. “And it is not true. I just don’t want to do it unless it is a pleasure to me, unless it feels so exciting that I rush to do it.”

  “In short, only if it’s not work,” Grover commented. “My kind of man. Myrtle, is Rivers coming over anytime soon? I have to go to NYC, but I’ll stay another day or two if he’s coming.”

  Faye saw Horace dart a surprised glance at Myrtle, who stiffened from the relaxed position she had adopted beside him. Myrtle looked visibly miffed, but quickly recovered and said smoothly that Bill would be coming soon, yes. BeBe eagerly clarified that he was Myrtle’s fiancé, a wealthy businessman. Faye caught the rather odd look that Horace gave her cousin.

  He held out his hand. “I believe I’ve heard of him. My sincerest congratulations. I envy him.”

  Myrtle’s lips parted and there was a sudden pause. Then she lightly shook Horace’s hand. No one else seemed to notice, but Faye was sure it signified something or other. Gestures usually do.

  Candy was passed around the table, chocolates with a variety of fillings. Grover was soon busy lighting his thickest cigar. Faye didn’t hate cigars, but she preferred cigarettes because her brother Warnie had smoked them since he was nine years old. Helene took five candies, Myrtle and BeBe each took twelve, the guys each one (with grudging looks, whether real or feigned was hard to tell) and then some alcohol. Faye took a courteous three and Bat, seated beside her on the sofa, did the same. Bat turned the wrappers over in her hand. They were brown paper embossed with little golden flourishes.

  “It’s like opening a package, isn’t it?” Bat said excitedly. “Not knowing what kind of filling it’s going to be. Like a hidden treasure, a secret.”

  “I know,” said Faye. “They’re all mixed up. It’s like luck determines what you’ll get.”

  “But doesn’t our faith teach us that God plans everything?” Mrs. Halwell sounded uncertain as her candy slowly opened. “Science does tell us the world was made by chance, though Dan says the two ideas are compatible.” She turned an embarrassed face towards her friend. “Sometimes I think I’ll never understand Dan. He’s so brilliant.”

  “Men are different,” Faye comforted her.

  Fingers trembling, Bat opened the chocolate. It was festooned with hard curls on the top, and carved in the shape of a flower. When broken open, it showed a creamy blue sugar filling mixed with white. Like the sky with little clouds on a summer’s day.

  Bat smiled, tears starting. “Blue. Dan’s favorite color!”

  Faye stroked her shoulder. “Maybe Dan would say that God ordains the luck.”

  Bat’s eyes were wide. “You know, I never thought of that. I suppose I was foolish to doubt him. But he’s so busy with his theological studies and his sermons, and I didn’t think I interested him anymore. He travels a lot, and I worried he . . . was forgetting me. That some other woman could talk with him about things I can’t.”

  What a precious example of God’s special planning. I didn’t even know Bat was going through this. “I didn’t see you again for years, but I always remembered you. I’m sure Dan feels the same way.”

  Bat looked over at her husband, who was now in a debate with Grover that seemed mildly serious. She sighed and picked up a leather pocketbook that lay beside the lamp. “Could I have this, by any chance? Mine got lost last week, and I really can’t do without a pocketbook. It’s one of a married woman’s five essentials, you know.”

  Startled, Faye assured her she could have it. Bat had taken the radio after the funeral, saying Dan needed the music to help him relax while he wrote sermons. Faye had no objection to helping out a friend. Especially a friend with a marked ability to lose things and need replacements.

  Helene bit slowly, luxuriously into her chocolate. Hers was in a funky art-deco shape. “Hmmm. Let’s see what we have here, Mr. Haverton. Chocolate, chocolate, and yes, I do believe it’s chocolate.” She closed her eyes and laughed. “I wonder what is in chocolate that makes it so good.”

  Ed waved a hand. “Literally, the same things that are in broccoli. Some complex acids, mix in some riboflavin and iron. Chocolate’s got more theobromine, maybe you’re tasting it . . . .”

  Helene held up an imperious little hand. “No, no, no, no, I will not allow that. I will not let chocolate be spoken of in this way. It’s not about the ingredients. I’m sure there’s something else in there. There must be. Chocolate excites something primitive in me. Broccoli is merely digested.”

  Ed locked his hands behind his head. “The ingredient is probably psychology then. Especially women’s psychology.”

  Helene tilted her nose. “And what do you mean by that?”

  “I’ll buy you a picture of broccoli and put it somewhere in your house, in a room you particularly like, and I promise you in a month you’ll feel about it exactly the way you do about chocolate,” he intoned. “You’ll have positive personal associations, and then you’ll have the same reaction. We now know all our so-called ideas are just projections of the subconscious. So I’d say poetry about chocolate is a waste of time.”

  Helene smiled. “I will admit I am a little angry at Freud. I admire him, of course. I’m not a revolutionary sort. But you will never make me feel about broccoli the way I do about chocolate. Never.”

  Ed put his head on one side. “A word for your dictionary, modern woman. Androgynous.”

  Helene frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He yawned negligently. “Nothing. It’s just a word that is more commonly used now than in the past. So since we’re being fashionable, we should try to work it in.”

/>   Bat reached over and tugged her stepsister’s arm. “Helene, I’d love for you to meet Faye Powell. Faye was my best friend when I was growing up. I can’t think of anyone who’d be better to show you around here.”

  Helene immediately seated herself beside Faye on the sofa. “Can’t say I’m sorry about it. The truth is, I don’t know many people. My parents don’t get out much, so Horace and I have always been very close. I’m crazy about him for that reason, but of course he can’t really substitute for female companionship. I was so eager when I found Bat again, just thinking she’d have to put up with me because we’re sisters. Maybe you’ll have to put up with me too?”

  All right then. “I’d be happy to show you around Parkdale.”

  Bat picked up a pile of small change from the top of the fireplace. “I hate to ask this, but could I borrow this two dollars? I’d like to buy a surprise for Dan, and I don’t get my cash unless I tell him I need some. And of course since it’s a surprise, I can’t tell him . . .”

  Faye waved a hand. “Sure.” She was glad to oblige.

  Chapter 4

  In no time the Havertons and the Carters were fast friends. Bat and Dan hung around as chaperones, Dan lending his gentle rebukes when things threatened to get a little out of hand. Not that he mixed his supervision with prudishness, by any means! Faye soon perceived he was as fond of a good time as anyone, and on many occasions his loud laugh echoed from the living room. Bat puttered in the kitchen with Faye, making sandwiches, chatting, and taking a set of spoons because theirs had been mislaid on the train. She was heartbroken over the loss because those spoons had been a wedding gift from Dan’s mother. Faye welcomed her offer to take the spoons. The Havertons had far too many spoons anyway.

  Mr. Rivers had yet to appear. I suppose he isn’t eager to come. But she dismissed that thought. He must like Myrtle very much, otherwise the engagement would not have occurred. And there was a lot to like in Myrtle after all, if she could find a man who could tame her independent spirit a little. Mr. Rivers probably enjoyed that kind of light-hearted war. But it was hasty to enter such a contract with a person no one in her family had met. Only Ed had even remotely heard of him.