“Here you both are! It’s just great to see both of you here together. My two favorite ladies,” he said.
His deep voice held a rumbling dignity to it, a sense of purpose and entitlement. Faye could easily imagine how much like him Uncle Warren had been when young. Aunt Betty had often spoken of how captivated she’d been by Faye’s uncle—a faint pink rising into her cheeks even after all these years. Faye felt a tickle rise up her own neck at Ed’s voice. Busily she fumbled with folding some of the music back into Helene’s blue purse. Faye adored blue. She’d insisted she wanted topazes instead of diamond for her wedding (should she ever have one) because of their pure, ethereal color.
Ed leaned an elbow on the piano and smiled tolerantly as he looked out towards the glass doors to the garden. Beyond them a fierce, brooding line of blue clouds was blowing in. “Hey, looks like the storm’s going to get here soon. Hope Horace and the others can outshoot it, or they’re going to wind up soaked to the skin. I think I’ll go up the drive and see if they’re coming.”
After he walked off, Helene smiled at Faye. “I think Horace is growing fond of you.”
The heat in Faye’s neck erupted into a boiling rush and soared up into her face and down into her chest. Her eyes were swimming. She’d noticed Horace’s constant friendliness to her—had detected interest even before Myrtle went away. But she’d hoped nobody else saw it, because they didn’t know about his relationship with Myrtle. Even if Helene suspected a fraction, she surely wasn’t aware of the whole. Faye knew that is she was pressed enough, her impetuous tongue would get the better of her and she’d wind up blurting out the whole truth about Myrtle. And then maybe even about BeBe, and she couldn’t do that. Not after BeBe had given her trust and confidence to Faye that night on the train. Faye couldn’t deny there had been moments when she’d been drawn near to Helene’s seductive brother even though she rigorously disapproved of him. It was really amazing the effect he had on people. But she was determined to smother the little symptoms. It wouldn’t be right. And she knew she had the self-control to keep on the course respect and moral dignity laid out for her.
He is so very handsome . . . such a brooding, mysterious quality in him. I’m sure he could be redeemed, but I’m certainly not foolish enough to think I’m the one to do it! He was a powerful person, as much in his personality and hold over others as in his finances and social position. God had need of men like him. But Faye only had to hope someone with greater charisma than she could possibly boast, someone more articulate, could encounter him. She was too much of a plain-speaking true American. Her simplicity would be ineffective. So many people seemed able to win others effortlessly through their words and actions. She’d often desired this gift, until quiet mornings reading the Scriptures had reminded her of the dangers of the sin of envy. Still, she did harbor a wistful wish that she could be eloquent enough to help both Horace and Helene come closer to God. She enjoyed their company, but their infectiousness and cleverness didn’t blind her to the vacancy they held in their hearts.
“Yes, I—I’d noticed,” she stammered, since Helene was still watching. “I like Horace. Who couldn’t like him? He’s very fascinating.” Wait, why did you say that? That came out wrong. It sounds interested. “But I’m not sure we’re compatible. And I wouldn’t want to get hijacked into something I’d regret.”
Helene’s eyes clouded. She seemed to be trying to understand. I don’t mean to hurt you, I really don’t! I just . . . oh, I’m so bad at this. I wish I wasn’t surrounded by so much confusion.
“Well . . . I won’t deny that he’s a bit of a womanizer. And I know your faith is important to you.”
Faye raised her chin proudly. “Yes. It is.” It was true, too. That was a reason she couldn’t ever really think of being with Horace, even if he hadn’t been with Myrtle before in a way no decent person could condone.
Helene’s lips twitched as she looked down, nodding. “I must say, that’s a very unusual stand to take. Especially now when science has shaken God out of the water. It’s true everyone finds Horace so charming. I don’t, of course! I feel for him what most people feel for their brothers, namely a never-ending resignation that he exists. But . . . well, you’re not obligated to be the same.”
Faye gulped. “I think a real reading of the Bible would lead you remember that long ago God was the one who shook the waters in the great flood. So I don’t think a little cold water thrown on Him by science is going to scare Him any.”
Helene let out a startled breath, then laughed. “I suppose so! You’re certainly not afraid to speak your mind, are you?” Her eyes narrowed, as if impressed. “I like that. I like that very much.”
She broke off as Ed returned with a lightly soaked Bat and a very wet Horace and Dan. They had shielded her with an umbrella, like gentlemen. The rain and wind rattled against the walls while Uncle Warren tuned the radio and Faye’s aunts sat at the dinner table. Lightning flashed through the glass garden doors as Ed drew the curtains. Uncle Warren began to carve the roast. It was tradition for him, as oldest male and head of the family, to assign people’s portions. It was his prerogative. He knew everyone’s favorite parts, and when he didn’t know he would, with jovial grace, inquire so as to get it right. Nobody, Faye was sure, had carving a roast quite so perfected as her uncle—and she could see from her aunt’s smiling eyes at the other end of the table, that his wife shared her opinion.
“Oh, Faye? Your brother called me up last night. He wanted to speak to you, but you’d already gone to bed.” Uncle Warren dug in his pocket and held out a piece of paper scented with cigarette smoke and wool from his jacket. “Your parents have moved again. I wrote the new address down for you.”
While the guests chatted over the food, Faye read the address. It was in the Bronx borough of New York City. Not very safe. I hope Sue doesn’t have to run errands late at night. Mother makes her do most of the household labor, I’ve heard. Sue was her next sister and must now be about twenty. Faye hadn’t seen her in several years.
Horace, seeming interested, bent over her shoulder. When she pulled away, he smiled, looking almost embarrassed. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to intrude on your note. But I’ve been curious about your brother. I’ve heard you mention him for a while. It’s great that you seem so close. I think the first place a brother learns the treatment of women is from his sisters.”
Faye nodded thoughtfully. “The way a fellow treats his sisters says something about him, yes. It tells people that Warnie will never marry, because he bullies me to death! But not really . . . actually, he’s the perfect brother. Knowing him, you’d understand why some girls love their brothers so much.”
He laughed, lines showing around the corners of his dark, intense eyes. “And knowing me, I suppose you’d understand why some girls do not.”
Faye turned her head towards him, her curls swishing in the lamplight. “You’re wrong. So very wrong. Helene loves you deeply, and she’s right. There’s much more to you than you believe.” She leaned urgently towards him, her breath bated and intense. “Stop being less than you are. Start being the man I know is in there—the real Horace. Stop doing things that are unworthy of you.”
He withdrew, stunned. As Faye passed the green beans to Ed, she knew Horace’s eyes were searching her in a new way—respectful but also questioning. He clearly wondered how she’d known he was lazily playing a part, not willing to do the work of becoming the man God intended. How had her eyes pierced through him to the true core? All these ideas were clearly flashing through his mind, but the noise of dinner prevented him from expressing them.
Chapter 15
Later, the guests drifted around the living room. Faye moved to the sofa and handed Horace a coffee. He took it absently, elbows on his knees as he half-listened to a twangy orchestral instrumental from the radio. The rain thudded hard on the roof. She hoped, if a conversation arose between them, that she would be granted the words. She was so often clumsy.
“I know peopl
e here must think I’m useless and have no respect for anyone,” he mused. “But my grandfather worked hard for every penny he passed on to us, and I really admire that attitude. He eventually owned half the factories in Maryland before the Great War. Two of them are still legally in my ownership. People there probably think I’ve forgotten about them. And I suppose I have.” He chuckled. “I got sidetracked, chasing some dream. It’s . . . led me a long way from home. My father is very different from my worthy grandfather. Like apples and oranges. Especially if the apple is rotten and the orange is still good.”
He let out a breath, as if the words he wanted to say kept clogging up in his throat. He bent forward, his profile silhouetted by the lamp. “I know it sounds crazy, but you and your cousin Myrtle look very alike. The same hair, the same kind of demeanor. Yet you’re so different from each other. I’m drawn to both of you and I don’t quite know why. As if my brain is trying to tell me something and I haven’t figured out what yet.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “I’d been friendly with Myrtle before this spring. Before you knew me, actually.”
That’s an understatement.
“I shouldn’t have let that interfere with her new relationship, but I couldn’t help myself. Bad habits, I guess. And all the while this was going on, I kept looking towards you, as if you held the answer for what drew me back to Myrtle. It’s hard to describe. It’s a connection of some sort. I’ve never . . .” he leaned closer, breath intense. “I’ve never found the woman who would make me want to give up everything else. And somehow I couldn’t shake an idea that Myrtle was that woman. Because she looked like you.” He shrugged. “It’s insane, I know. And probably very offensive.”
Faye put a hand on his arm. “I do understand. I understand you need to seek God and ask him to open your eyes to honesty about yourself. You should have treated Myrtle a different way, and because I am her cousin you can put me in place of her and feel that is so. I pray you’ll be able to find your way.”
Their eyes met. She could read his thoughts in his face. Yes, that’s it exactly. But Helene was calling his name. Faye turned to find that everyone now wore an excited, secretive expression.
Helene beamed gleefully. “Horace, Ed told me they used to have galas here, and I told him it would be tremendous to see this place filled up with people. It has such a solemn air most of the time.”
“And so I said, why not have a party here?” Ed continued eagerly.
Uncle Warren waved a hand. “The galas are a service to the community. It’s our public role and we ought to embrace it. So I think we should have one again. In a week or two.”
Helene held out a hand to Faye. “I’d love to help with the clothes. We can go to New York tomorrow, stay a couple of nights and shop. I know all the best places and I’ll be happy to have the travel fare on me. No, really, oblige me please. I wouldn’t think of you paying for our girls’ outing, Mr. Haverton.” She shook her dangling bracelets. “Oh, this is so exciting! I can hardly wait.”
Faye thought the word unbelievable would be more applicable. She couldn’t possibly be at a gala! Her awkwardness would get the best of her for sure. But Uncle Warren reached into his wallet and handed her two hundred dollars to buy clothes. Two hundred. Why it’s huge! She accepted his generosity, hiding her feelings of inadequacy. With Myrtle and BeBe both gone, she would be the young woman of the house. She’d have to greet guests, and play hostess, and organize the food and—she struggled to catch her breath, sitting down hard on the sofa as the others buzzed with plans. Her chest was rising. She placed her hand against her ribs as she tried to smother an attack of hyperventilation. How could she get through a party without a mishap? She would just have to have faith.
The gala was the first official party at Bellevere in three years, and even Aunt Betty summoned enough energy to make festoons for the living room. The glow in her gracious aunt’s eyes really warmed Faye’s heart. The next three weeks were filled with busy preparations, and the outing with Helene went very well. Armed with Uncle Warren’s money, they went to the ritziest department stores and eventually chose a pretty black silk dress and some diamond earrings. Helene firmly insisted on a jazzy Egyptian-style necklace made of gold and onyx. Faye, not wishing to be rude, agreed although she had planned to wear the pearls Ed had given her for her birthday. It wasn’t as if she shopped in a fine jewelry store every day and could afford to throw a tantrum. And Helene is just a darling.
By the afternoon of the gala day, the house was in a fever of last minute preparations. Flowers came, caterers came, late RSVPs came, and Aunt Cora ran things with martial authority as Faye ran up and down stairs carrying pails to and from the bathrooms. She had to laugh at the image of herself caught in a smudgy floor-length mirror, carrying mundane pails while wearing black-strapped heels and an open-backed evening dress. So much for glamor. Dressed up in all the wrong places—with her makeup running, one dangling earring fallen on the stairs and the other still in her ear, and carrying a putrid bucket that threatened any minute to destroy the expensive dress bought with her uncle’s money—now that was the real Faye. Humph. Hope I can fake it for a couple hours. I wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone. Nobody seemed worried about the evening except her. Which of course only made her more nervous than before.
As night fell, she came downstairs freshened up and wearing her sleek black dress, cut along more alluring lines than those to which she was accustomed. She would have much preferred something plainer, but Uncle Warren had treated her with great generosity and she didn’t like to hurt him. So she had accepted the fine clothes Helene chose for her, preferring to chafe inwardly than decline outwardly. In the living room, Uncle Warren marched around sticking out his chest like a rooster. A splendid array of food and wine was spread on little tables, while Aunt Betty, dressed in a long green dress and furs, held out her slender hand.
“You know, I was going to lend you my hairbrush, Faye. But I forgot. Doesn’t she look nice, Ed?”
Faye turned. Ed had come in from the garden. Behind him Hank was lighting numberless Japanese lanterns in the garden. They glowed like enormous beehives of light. Ed looked confident, as he always did. His arm lightly touched her back and the soft light of his smile reassured her as he ushered her towards a cluster of people. Stiffly adjusting the slippery gown, she smiled as she saw how happy and proud her uncle was. At least one of us is comfortable.
Ed introduced her to a professor, some society people, and a rather distinctive woman in her thirties. Though her face was not classically beautiful, she had unusually perceptive eyes and her brown hair was abundant and curly. She acts as if she’s the only person in the room. I wonder who she is. The woman sported a pronounced British accent. Had Uncle Warren invited her?
“No, please, I wouldn’t dream of handing my readers such irrelevant rubbish,” the woman said to her neighbor. “The only newsworthy thing about people like this is that they think they would interest newspaper readers.”
“But the public eats up the rich and famous. Trash, gabble, gossip, always the basics of our trade, Jane,” said the man, who seemed from the pen behind his ear to be a journalist. Most women wouldn’t call him at all handsome, but one wink from his alert, roving eyes and everyone, man or woman, was at his feet.
Jane waved a hand. “I’m only here because of that bracelet you gave me. A little overpriced in exchange for a simple human-interest column, but if there’s a woman who would treat jewelry as an offense I don’t want to meet her. But you are the only reason I am here. Rich and famous people may steal attention from important stories. Rich and unknown people never do and never should. And Illinois socialites are the worst. There shouldn’t even be such a thing.”
Flashing an unconvinced grin, the man moved forward to shake hands with Uncle Warren. Every gesture and motion of his wrists was indescribably elegant. Somehow he had become the most ornamental figure on the scene, the women included. And the ladies seemed to know it. They acted as though King George VI himself had co
me calling. Honestly, how absurd!
“Yes, so glad we could make it. I met your son in New York a few months back,” said the dashing newcomer.
“Grover?” Uncle Warren inquired.
The man smiled exquisitely. “Sadly, no. I’ve never heard of him. I’m sure Grover is the person most worth knowing in the world, because he’s the only one I don’t know. But it was Ed, actually. I imagine he’s slinking around on the premises. I’ll poke after him in a bit.” He took Faye’s hand. “The name’s Stanley. We must book a dance together.” He emitted a dazzling smile. Sure of ourselves, aren’t we? We’ll see about that.
Uncle Warren pushed forward the British woman, who looked bored and was not being terribly shy about it. Snob. “And this is Jane Watson, Stanley’s business associate. Miss Watson, this is Faye Powell, my niece. We’re very excited about her special evening.”
Jane gave Faye the same remote smile she had bestowed on everyone else and then turned quickly away. Almost anyone would be made a bit nervous by Miss Jane’s attitude, but Faye wasn’t about to let her common sense be run over by a commonplace British accent. She gave Miss Watson a frown and a long look before walking away to greet Helene. What a relief it was to see a dear friend!
Helene gave Faye a kiss on the cheek. “I feel quite in the hubbub of society. Is that the correct expression?” She glanced around the crowd.
“I believe it’s the hub of society. But yours is better,” Faye said, laughing lightly.
“Well, let’s forget about all these stragglers and speak of real people,” Helene continued. “I have someone specific in mind.”
Faye didn’t mind and led her friend a little distance away into a window seat in the corner beside Uncle Warren’s old desk. Here they curled up their legs and watched the perambulations of the party from a safe distance. “Who did you want to speak of?”
Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen) Page 13
