“He didn’t guess there was a baby coming?”
“Not a word about it. I don’t think it’s occurred to him.” Mrs. Bellmont’s voice broke, and she took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
Jeselle stifled a gasp. Frances was going to have a baby. That was why she’d been sick.
Mama pulled a handkerchief out of her apron pocket and pressed it into Mrs. Bellmont’s hand, leading her over to the table. “Set for a minute, Miz Bellmont. No reason you can’t cry. It’s been a shock for you.” She made a clucking sound with the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
Mrs. Bellmont sank into a chair, dabbing under her eyes. “Frank agreed to have the wedding at the lake house, away from Atlanta society. Then, we’ll just announce the marriage. People will talk, but it’s the best we can do. It’ll help that Nathaniel’s so esteemed.”
“This Mr. Fye ain’t heard about that Waller girl’s party?”
“He doesn’t run in society. Doesn’t have to worry about such things. His talent excuses him from that, I suppose. He’s what my grandmother would’ve called painfully shy. But he’s humble and intelligent. Has these eyes that seem to take everything in at once.”
Mama took a cup and saucer from the hutch and poured a cup of light green liquid that smelled of fresh mint from the pot on the stove. “This here’s the tea I made for you.” Mama set it in front of her. “Mint leaves and a new herb I heard about that’s good for bad stomachs.”
“Thank you, Cassie.” Mrs. Bellmont sipped from the cup. “Oh my, such a refreshing taste.” She rested her forehead in her hand and closed her eyes for a moment before looking back at Mama.
“It’s all so rushed. I can’t tell how Frances feels about him, other than she’s talked of nothing but moving to New York since we came home. I hope she’ll be happy, Cassie. As difficult as Frances has been, a mother always wants better for her child than she’s had herself.”
“There ain’t no such thing as a happy marriage, anyhow,” said Mama.
“I always thought there might be. For other people.”
“No one we know.”
“He’s a good man. Of that I’m certain.” Mrs. Bellmont sipped her tea. Mama scooped a pile of potatoes into a bowl. “Nathaniel’s kin are fishing people up in Maine. Poor, like we were, Cassie.”
“Except we can’t play the piano,” said Mama.
Mrs. Bellmont laughed. “We certainly can’t.”
Chapter 7
Whitmore
* * *
In his mother’s upstairs study at the lake house, Whitmore sketched Jeselle’s face, sitting next to the open window. Above Sequoyah Lake, the northern Georgia sky was the same brilliant blue of the native blue jays twittering and hopping from pine to pine. They sang loudly this afternoon, calling out to one another as if in protest of the changing season. October had brought autumn overnight, it seemed, the air crisp and the leaves beginning to turn. Soon geese would arrive from the north, decorating the sky as Whitmore took his morning rows across the brown lake.
Jeselle sat in the reading chair; light from the window illuminated one side of her face while the other remained in shadow. Her glance skipped furtively between the window and the book on Mother’s desk, To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf. “I know I’m too young to read it yet because it’s—what did your mother say it was?”
“Radical.”
The sound of a car’s motor drifted in from the open window. His stomach fluttered, knowing it was Martin and Frances back from fetching Nathaniel at the train depot. He looked out the window to the dirt road. The black Rolls Royce, with Martin behind the wheel, made its way slowly, bouncing in potholes, flinging small rocks from under its tires, and coating the short, fat pines with a fine, rust-colored powder.
Mother called to them, the sound travelling up the wishbone stairs. “C’mon down, children.”
They stared at one another for a moment. Whitmore shuffled to his feet, plunging his hands into his dungarees. “What kind of man can he be?” he whispered.
“The kind to marry Frances,” she whispered back.
“We’ll just stay out of his way.”
“Same as we do with Frances.”
“And Father.”
When they reached the wishbone stairs that led to the first floor, Jeselle took the right side, skipping steps, and Whitmore the left, taking them one at a time, so that despite the difference in the length of their legs, they arrived in the foyer at the same time. Cassie and Mother were just coming from the music room, where the French doors were wide open, bringing the fragrance of freshly cut grass and late-blooming honeysuckle. Fred Wilder, their gardener, had spent the morning tidying the flowerbeds and trimming the sweeping lawn so that Mother’s beloved lake house looked its best. The house, built in the French colonial style and painted white, had been constructed from cypress wood, with high columns supporting a large awning. Rectangular windows with black shutters ran along the front of the house, with dormer windows in front of the attic spaces.
At the bottom of the stairs, Whitmore gripped the handrail, not knowing where to set his gaze. His heart pounded at his first glimpse of the tall, elegant Nathaniel Fye. Next to him, he heard Jeselle’s quick intake of breath. “Mr. Darcy,” Jeselle whispered.
She was right, of course. He looked like Austen’s Darcy, tall and mysterious, perhaps even brooding, partly due to his eyebrows. Dark and somewhat bushy, they were pushed together by the furrow of his brow, giving an appearance that he was disturbed or angry. But then Nathaniel came forward, standing in front of Whitmore and reaching his hand out like men do before a handshake. He wanted to shake his hand like Whitmore was an adult? His cheeks flushed. No one had ever done that before. In the presence of Father’s friends he was either glared at or ignored. He squared his shoulders and looked into the older man’s eyes. But what was this? The eyes didn’t match the eyebrows or the furrow of his brow. No, they were kind. They were eyes that looked deeply into a person and saw what others couldn’t. Eyes like Jeselle’s.
“I’m glad to meet you, Whitmore.” Nathaniel’s voice was surprisingly soft, almost shy.
Whitmore shook his hand, mumbling, “Good to meet you too, sir.”
“Please, it’s not necessary to call me sir.” Nathaniel let go of his hand, chuckling. “That was my father.”
“We’ll all call him Nate.” Frances stood next to Nathaniel, staring up at him with adoring eyes. Who was this soft and seemingly sweet sister? Was it possible love had transformed her? No, it couldn’t be. She was charming when she needed or wanted something. And she wanted Nathaniel Fye. This much was clear. Whitmore shivered.
“Nate?” asked Mother.
Frances unpinned her hat and tossed it on the foyer table, knocking a piece of decorative lace to the floor. “Yes, I’ve decided. Nate.”
“Is this a family nickname?” Mother looked over at Nate with a perplexed expression.
“No, I’ve never had a nickname, Nate or otherwise. Frances says it sounds modern, and if this is what Frances wants, I shall from this point forward be called Nate.” He said this looking at Whitmore and smiling as if it were a private joke between them. Then, he turned to Mother. “Mrs. Bellmont, my mother always said a happy wife makes for a happy marriage.”
Mother opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to decide against it and instead gave one of her dazzling smiles. What could she say to that, thought Whitmore, when married to Frank Bellmont?
Martin came into the foyer with Nathaniel’s two small suitcases. “Shall I take these up, ma’am?”
“Thank you, Martin,” said Mother.
“Leave the smaller one, if you don’t mind, Martin,” Nate said. “I’ve brought Whitmore something from New York.”
“Let’s all go into the music room.” Mother took Nate’s arm. “We’ve a present for you as well.”
“Mother, how thoughtful of you,�
�� said Frances.
“It’s a present for all of us, really.” Mother’s eyes danced. She loved giving gifts.
Frances took Nate’s other arm as they all headed into the music room. Behind them, Whitmore watched Frances go onto her tiptoes to whisper something in Nate’s ear that made him laugh. Was it possible this man was actually in love with his spoiled, petulant sister?
“Is Mr. Bellmont here?” Nate asked Mother.
“He’ll be here anytime,” said Mother. “He’s driving up from Atlanta this afternoon.”
In the music room, Mother brushed her fingertips along the ivory keys of the new piano. “Our wedding present to you.” The piano was a Steinway & Sons 1927 Louis XV style Model S. His mother had ordered what she hoped was the best of its kind for her new son-in-law. Father was outraged when he found out how much she’d spent. Whitmore had heard him shouting at her from behind their bedroom door. The next morning Mother had bruises on her neck and walked gingerly, like one of her legs hurt. Whitmore seethed just thinking of it. But what could be done? No one could fight against Frank Bellmont and win.
His mother continued, “This one is for when you stay with us. I’ve had another sent to your apartment in New York. This way you’ll always have something to play, no matter if you’re here or there.”
“It’s too generous.” His voice sounded strangled.
“Nonsense, darlin’. All I ask is that you’ll play for us when you’re here.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
Next, Nate opened his suitcase and pulled out a flat, wooden container with a gold clasp and handed it to Whitmore. “Go ahead, open it.”
Whitmore lifted the cover. Arranged in neat rows were tubes of paint, along with charcoals. “Thank you!”
“The clerk at the art store told me charcoal makes a mess of your hands.” Nate turned back to his suitcase and pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper. “Here, this too.”
It was a set of paintbrushes in every shape and size. Whitmore thanked him again, almost too overwhelmed to speak. How had Nate known about his interest in art? Had Frances told him? He doubted that. She never showed any interest in him. Perhaps Mother had mentioned it. This was not the man he’d expected. Not at all.
Later, after a meal of Cassie’s fried chicken, butter beans, and fried okra, they all went into the music room to hear Nate play. Cassie hovered by the open French doors, refusing to sit. Whitmore sat cross-legged on the floor by the west-facing window, with Jeselle next to him.
Mother spoke to Nate. “The salesmen told me it produces a tone so sublime as to make a person weep.”
“Take quite a sound to make me weep.” Cassie stood near the doorway, as if she didn’t want to stay, but Whitmore knew it was because of Father. If he came home and found either Cassie or Jeselle sitting with them, there would be hell to pay. And Mother would be the one to pay it. Cassie protected Mother no matter the circumstance, he thought. Like a sister might.
Mrs. Bellmont and Nate both laughed. “There are several books of music for solo piano there,” Mrs. Bellmont said. “I hope there’s something in it you might like.”
“I’m sure I can find something to play for you.” Nate sat at the piano bench, brushing his fingers over the keys without pressing them, as if he was familiarizing himself with a new friend, then picked up one of the books Mrs. Bellmont had left on the top of the piano. “There are some lovely pieces here.”
“We’ll like anything you pick, I’m sure.” Mother sat on the couch and pulled out her latest embroidery.
“Nate, you look like you belong here in this room with us. Aren’t we lucky, Mother?” Frances sat in the soft, felt chair in the far corner of the room, crossing her ankles.
“Extremely,” said Mother.
Before Nate began to play, he explained to them that classical musicians referred to pieces with both the key and catalogue reference numbers but that he would tell them only the popular names for fear of running them out of the room from boredom, which made Frances and Mother laugh. First he played Schubert’s Wanderer Fantasy, a gentle, melodic tune that brought the sunset of orange and pink outside the west-facing windows. Chopin’s Funeral March then ushered in dusk. It began with soft, delicate notes that reminded Whit of his mother’s hands and then grew dark and brooding, building into a crescendo as mosquitoes pushed against the screens, trying to get in. Finally, as darkness arrived, he finished with one of the first pieces Nate said he’d ever learned as a young student, Bach’s simple but lovely Minuet in G major.
The music ended, and the ghost of those notes hovered in the room for a moment. Whit looked over at his mother as she wiped tears from her cheeks. The beauty of it was almost too much to bear. Nothing could be said, or painted, or written, that music couldn’t inspire. He thought of his new paints upstairs and of the colors of the sunset that had just played across Jeselle’s face, and it seemed to him that nothing was more important than creating something of beauty.
Then, a door slammed, and they heard Father’s boots, heavy on the hardwood floor. He glanced over at the doorway, but Cassie was no longer there. She must have heard his car and escaped to the kitchen. A spot under Whitmore’s left eye began to twitch. He put his index finger there, willing it to stop. Father hated the twitch.
Jeselle stood, glancing at the doorway with the eyes of someone caught. “Take your dust rag out of your apron,” he whispered.
“Yes, right.” She pulled it from her pocket.
“Now go.”
She headed for the doorway, slipping through just as Father came through. “Girl, wait,” said Father.
Jeselle turned. “Yes, sir?”
“Bring me a whiskey. Three fingers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nate stood, and Father went to him. They shook hands.
“Frank Bellmont. Good to meet you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sorry, my boy, to have to meet so informally, but I figure since y’all are getting married tomorrow we’d better not worry too much about that.”
“I appreciate it, Mr. Bellmont.”
“Now, call me Frank. No need for formal names now that we’re family.”
Father turned to look at Whitmore. “Son, you paint any flowers today?”
“No, sir.”
Father shook his head, looking at Nate. “Whitmore thinks painting pictures like a little girl is a good way to spend his time.”
“Frank,” said Mother.
Father’s face went red. “Now, don’t you try and defend him, Clare. You know as well as I do that only pansy boys spend their time painting goddamn flowers.”
“Where were you for supper?” Mother asked. “We waited for you as long we could.”
“Since when does a wife ask her husband his whereabouts?” He strode toward the door. “Dammit, where’s that girl? I need a drink.”
“Sometimes it’s trees. Or the lake.” Whitmore spoke quietly, readying himself for an onslaught.
“What did you say?” said Father.
“Frank, I’d love a tour of the grounds tomorrow.” Nate’s eyes darted from one of them to the other.
“Sure thing. Although it’s my wife knows every blade of grass and pine needle on the place. Must be where my son gets it.” Father turned to Frances. “How’s my little bride?”
She smiled her Daddy smile. “I’m simply perfect, Daddy.” She meandered over to stand by Nate and slipped her hand into his. Nate smiled down at her.
Jeselle came in with the whiskey. Frank motioned for everyone to sit. “Nathaniel, you need a drink?”
“No, sir.”
“Nate doesn’t drink,” said Mother.
“Well, now, we’ll have to do something to change that,” said Father. “All Bellmont men drink.”
He isn’t a Bellmont, Whit thought. And he prayed he never would be.
After everyone else retired for the night, Whit sat at the kitchen table, eating a piece of Cassie’s apple pie and gazing at a sl
iver of moon framed in the window. He was about to take his last bite when Nate came through the door, nodding politely at him.
“Evening,” Whit said, feeling nervous.
Nate went to the butler’s pantry and came out with a glass of milk and a piece of pie. “Your mother said to help myself.” Nate sat across from him at the wooden table.
“Sure.” Whitmore moved his fork around his now empty plate. Looking up, he saw Nate watching him, a crease between his dark eyebrows.
“Your mother tells me you row across the lake every day.”
“Yep. I’m trying to get stronger.”
“Why’s that?”
“Might need to protect someone someday.”
Nate nodded and continued gazing at him, as if there were words written on Whitmore’s forehead. “You ever fish in the lake?”
“Sometimes. They stock it every spring. Catfish mostly.”
“In Maine everyone fishes or catches lobster. For a living. Out in boats.”
Whitmore wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded his head and then looked back at his pie.
“You want to go tomorrow morning? Before breakfast?”
“I’d like that, sure.” Whitmore picked up his plate and took it to the sink, trying to hide the pleasure he felt. “I’ll get us some night crawlers before I go to bed.”
Slightly before dawn, at the lake’s shore, they strung the fat, wiggly night crawlers on hooks and then dangled their poles from the edge of the Bellmonts’ pier. The morning air had the crisp, cool feel of autumn. Occasionally a fish jumped, causing ripples in the smooth water.
“Are you really famous?” Whit asked. His mother always told him to ask someone a question if you wanted to start a conversation.
“In certain circles, I suppose. That’s not why I do it, though.”
“What do you mean?” Whitmore sat still, waiting for the answer. He wanted to hear every word, to memorize it for later because he was about to hear something important, of this he felt certain.
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