Window on the Square

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  But that night while Dwight Reid was getting ready for bed, the boy got a pistol from the collection downstairs. He knew where bullets were to be found and he knew all about the loading and shooting of guns. On trips to the country, Dwight had indulged him in his own hobby, believing that every boy should be trained to handle guns safely and shoot like a gentleman.

  “By odd chance I was in the house that night,” Brandon Reid said. “I had been abroad for more than a year on my last trip to Egypt and had returned only that morning. Late in the evening I went to Dwight’s room to talk with him. I had just stepped to the hall door when Jeremy came through the curtains from what was then his father’s dressing room and is now Leslie’s boudoir. Before I could realize what he was about, he pointed the gun at his father and fired. I dashed the pistol from the boy’s hand and rushed to my brother. There was nothing to be done. At that range Jeremy could hardly have missed.”

  His voice had grown hard in the telling, and I listened unhappily.

  After a moment’s silence, he went on. “Perhaps now you’ll better understand what you refer to as the unloving atmosphere of this house. Afterwards the boy showed a bold, unrepentant attitude. Captain Mathews, as you may have gathered today, worked on the investigation. He never learned the whole truth and he gave the boy every consideration and kindness within reason. But it was as though Jeremy was proud of what he had done. We can’t trust him or rest easily with him in the same house. Yet no school would take him under such circumstances, and in any case it would not be fair to submit other children to his company and influence. The only person he seems to like is Selina, and my wife is afraid he may harm her in some violent rage.”

  My eyes were swimming with tears, yet it was still the child my heart ached for. I could not rid myself of the conviction that, in spite of everything, it was he who suffered now, concealing his suffering as no child should have to conceal so terrible a self-blame. Concealing it behind a guard of pretense and antagonistic behavior.

  My employer was regarding me almost kindly, and it seemed strange to see those gray eyes warm a little and lose something of their condemnation.

  “Truly,” he said, “I’m grateful for your interest and your sincerity in dealing with Jeremy. What I fear is that your youth and your own feminine instinct to forgive a child will blind you to sensible action. I don’t dismiss the possibility that you may still help the boy. But too much softness will not be good for him either.”

  “What softness has he had?” I asked quickly. “Must you punish him for running away today?”

  “The boy wants to be punished,” he told me. “He is constantly asking for punishment.”

  “That in itself should be a warning to you,” I said. But I didn’t want to oppose him further. Events had moved in my direction, and I was to have my chance to help the boy if I could.

  For the first time Mr. Reid glanced about the room and noted the map of Egypt I had tacked up over the mantel.

  He nodded toward it. “What, exactly, do you hope to gain by that?”

  “All I ask for is a show of interest,” I said. “The boy isn’t as indifferent as he pretends. I’m sure of that. For one thing—he admires you tremendously.”

  Mr. Reid looked shocked. “It’s possible that he did in the past. His imagination was caught by my adventures in distant places, as any child’s might have been. But now he looks at me sometimes with hatred in his eyes. Don’t count too heavily on his devotion to me or you’ll only delude yourself. At least you’ve brought a quality of mercy into this house, Miss Kincaid, and I’ll grant you that has been lacking. Perhaps it will reach the boy. I hope you’ll continue to forgive what isn’t always to your pleasure and do your best.”

  I rose and held out my hand in frank acceptance of so fair a request. He took my fingers in his and held them for a moment. Again I felt the vigor and strength of this man as it flowed to his very fingertips, but this time I did not flinch away as I had before.

  “I haven’t forgotten about the matinee tickets,” he told me. “I hope to have them for you early in December. I want a box, not the lesser seats. Perhaps the children would enjoy a box.”

  I assured him that they would, hoping it was true, and he went away, leaving me more reassured than at any time since I had come to this house.

  When I returned to the hall, I met Miss Garth coming out of Jeremy’s room.

  “He’s warm at last, and asleep,” she told me. “What did you do this afternoon to excite him into running away?”

  I had no intention of giving Miss Garth fuel for her already smoldering resentment, and I countered with a question of my own.

  “Why didn’t you warn me that he was given to running away? Then I could have been on guard against what happened.”

  She drew herself up, regarding me out of those dark, deeply set eyes—a handsome and redoubtable woman. “We expect you to exert extreme caution with this boy at all times, Miss Kincaid. Specific instruction hardly seemed necessary.” She swept off down the hall, her full brown skirts rustling, wafting behind her a strange mixture of scents—lavender blended today with just a whiff of violet.

  I went gladly to my own room. My nerves had been strained more than once today, and I wanted to rest and speak to no one. Beneath my door I found a folded sheet of paper of the sort on which Jeremy did his sums. Spreading it out, I discovered that Andrew Beach had written me a note.

  Would I, he requested, have a modest supper with him tonight? He had returned to the house to leave some books this afternoon and had learned of Jeremy’s running away. He hoped all was well by now, but I undoubtedly needed a change from gloom and the company of a half-mad little boy. He would call for me at six.

  I read the note through with pleasure. Andrew’s astringent company would be good for me tonight. I did indeed need a change from the depressing atmosphere of this house.

  SEVEN

  Kate, my one friend among the Reid servants, came at six to tell me that Mr. Beach awaited me in the sitting room downstairs. I had already let Miss Garth know that I would be dining out and I went down to greet him.

  It had been fun to dress up for once. My wardrobe was not extensive, but my mother had insisted that I own at least two good dresses and she had put hours of loving work into making them. Tonight I had chosen a long-sleeved gown of garnet satin with a loose-falling skirt draped up at the back in a slight bustle. It was not overtrimmed, but had a touch of black lace running from my throat down the front of the tight-fitting bodice. I had fluffed my bangs and pinned my hair in loose curls at the nape of my neck, finding in such frivolous gestures the sort of release only a woman understands.

  I went downstairs rather slowly, not wholly admitting to myself that I wished Brandon Reid would appear in the hallway, not wholly admitting that I would like him to see me in my finery, instead of as the gray dove of a seamstress I had become. Mr. Reid did not appear, however, and when I went into the sitting room I found it empty. This time I did not resist the pull of the mirror and I was standing before it studying myself when Andrew entered behind me.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Megan. Mrs. Reid summoned me upstairs to reprove me for disciplining Selina this morning. They’re a difficult pair to please at times—both master and mistress. But let’s forget all that. Turn around and let me see your fine feathers.”

  I turned and saw the half-amused lighting of his eyes.

  “You’re a bit elegant for the little place where I’m taking you. But I’m flattered and I’ll make the best of looking at you. You’re a very pretty girl, Megan.”

  He helped me into my mantle and we walked the few blocks to the Italian restaurant he had chosen.

  “As a matter of fact,” he explained as we strolled along, “I have my lodgings upstairs at Mama Santini’s, so I know her fare is hearty and good, if not as fancy as Delmonico’s.”

  The November night was growing sharp after the cold day, and there was almost a feeling of snow in the air. I have a
liking for the winter months and find them enlivening, invigorating. My earlier nervous shivering had vanished, and this entire change was already doing me good.

  The small restaurant seemed a cheerful, unpretentious place, with bare table tops scrubbed to the bone, and an appetizing odor of tomatoes and onions and peppers perfuming the air. There were no soft lights here, but bright gas globes everywhere and a cheery clatter of voices and laughter from diners already eating.

  Mama Santini came to greet me herself and eyed my garnet gown with approval. I did her place honor, she stated, implying cheerfully that the place deserved it. Did she not, after all, serve the best Italian cooking in New York?

  Because Andrew was clearly a favorite, a corner table had been saved for us, and we were shown to it with as much flourish as any headwaiter could have managed. Mama Santini clearly enjoyed her own cooking and she shook with good-natured laughter that seemed to start with her cheeks and ripple downward over generous bosom and a stomach no whaleboning could restrict.

  I took my chair in the corner and pulled off my gloves, smiling at Andrew. “What a lovely place! Thank you for thinking of this.”

  His faint cynicism did not disturb me tonight. Andrew might entertain a mocking attitude toward the world and the people about him, but even when he stated unflattering truths, he never cut me to the quick as Brandon Reid could do.

  By now a desire to talk was bubbling up in me, and, while we ate the delectable antipasto and sipped red wine, I began to tell him of all that had happened that day. He stopped me short almost at once.

  “None of that!” he ordered. “Your unhappy adventures will keep for another time. We’ll not spoil good food with them. Tell me about yourself instead, Megan. Where do you come from, where are you going?”

  The first was easy to answer, and I told him of Princeton, New Jersey, the town in which I had grown up and where my father had taught. I didn’t mind that a certain nostalgia crept into my words, although I knew that Andrew was wholly city-bred and would regard a small university town with amusement. I told him briefly of my father’s death during the war and of my mother’s struggle to earn us a livelihood here in New York.

  “Unfortunately,” I confessed, “I lack her skill with a needle. Indeed, I was doing so badly that I was at my wit’s end when Mr. Reid offered me this position.”

  “And what will happen,” Andrew asked, “when your position ends?”

  “It’s not necessary to worry about that now,” I objected. “Indeed, Mr. Reid gave me a reprieve this afternoon. I’m to have more time to work with Jeremy and try to help him. After all, I’ve scarcely begun.”

  Andrew broke off a thick crust of Italian bread. He did not look at me, but I heard again the bitter note that sometimes came into his voice when he spoke of Brandon Reid.

  “If I were you, I would not count on staying too long in Reid’s good graces. When he’s through using you, he’ll make short shrift of letting you go. And he’ll trouble himself not at all as to what happens to you once you are out of the house. Take care of yourself first, Megan. A bit more self-interest would serve you well.”

  I had no answer for him and I did not attempt one. Our steaming plates of spaghetti came and I found myself eating more hungrily than I had in days. Andrew watched me knowingly.

  “Even your eating improves when you’re out of that house. Don’t think I haven’t seen you pick at your food with Garth presiding. Not that she wouldn’t ruin anyone’s appetite if you let her. I turn the tables and interfere with hers. Have you noticed how fond she is of me?”

  I laughed, glad to get away from the subject of Brandon Reid and my position in his house.

  “It’s your turn now,” I said. “Tell me about your own ambitions. I know what skill you have in capturing likenesses on paper. Jeremy showed me the drawing you did of him during the investigation of his father’s death. I thought it sensitive and penetrating. You saw past the ugliness of what had happened to a shocked and frightened child.”

  “I doubt that,” Andrew said dryly. “I merely gave the public the sentimentality it wanted. Most adults would rather weep over a child than believe him a monster.”

  I hated to see Andrew so harsh when it came to Jeremy, but when I would have protested, he changed the subject.

  “I’m more interested now in the oil portrait I’m doing of Selina and her mother. The child is an ideal model, the mother more difficult to catch. Unfortunately, sittings aren’t as regular as I’d like.”

  I knew Andrew sometimes stayed after lessons, or returned in the afternoon to work on the portrait Mrs. Reid had commissioned, but so far he had not shown it to me.

  “I’d like to see what you’re doing,” I told him.

  “I’m not sure you’ll approve,” he said cryptically, and went on to speak of his free-lance work for the newspapers.

  Often, it seemed, he was called in on assignment and had developed a faculty for doing quick sketches of those in the public eye. I had seen some of his fearsome drawings of convicted criminals and could realize by comparison how gentle he had been with Jeremy.

  He spoke now with matter-of-fact good cheer of pickpockets and thugs, of political spoils and sanctioned law-breaking as if they were everyday matters to the newspaper world. As indeed, they must have been.

  I brought up the subject of Dwight Reid and his work in fighting crime and mentioned that we had pursued Jeremy that afternoon to the Memorial Home being built in Dwight’s honor.

  Andrew seemed unimpressed. “Dwight tried hard enough, I suppose. But Sir Galahad himself would have been lost in New York City today, what with our corrupt judiciary and the selling of justice.”

  “Even with Jim Fisk behind bars?” I asked.

  “Only a start has been made. Dwight Reid made scarcely a dent. More’s the pity, since he had captured the public eye.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Are you still planning to take the children to the matinee of Cicely Mansfield’s play?”

  I told him that Mr. Reid had mentioned getting us a box only that afternoon, and Andrew whistled softly.

  “A box! The man must be out of his mind. Doesn’t he know that Selina and the boy are likely to be recognized, even if you are not?”

  “What of it?” I asked in exasperation. “Must everyone go on behaving as though a tragedy that happened in the past must blight these children’s lives forever?”

  Andrew pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead as if he puzzled over something.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What is the matter with this play that everyone behaves in an odd way the moment I mention it?”

  “You might as well be told,” he said. “Though I don’t know why I must always be your informant. At least I have no sense of delicacy about Reid’s reputation. It’s not a savory reputation, you know. His name has been coupled with the Mansfield woman’s for some time. His infatuation with her is public knowledge.”

  My silence was filled with dismay. I disliked gossip and never cared for such columns in the papers. Yet if what Andrew had just told me was true, it explained much that had puzzled me. It gave me the answer to Mr. Reid’s own reaction—first of anger, then of amusement when I had made the suggestion. He had decided easily enough to play this outrageous joke upon me. It explained Miss Garth’s dismay, too, and the way Leslie Reid had walked out of the library that day when her husband had suggested that she join the party.

  Andrew was watching me, aware of my groping bewilderment, even a little amused by it. “Now you are in difficulties, aren’t you? What is a genteel young woman to do under such circumstances? Are you going to tell Master Brandon off and refuse to go?”

  “Stop looking at me as if I were someone you meant to sketch for your paper,” I said indignantly, still struggling with my confusion.

  “Perhaps that’s just what you are,” he said, laughing out loud. “You’d make a charming heroine for a news story, though perhaps you’re full of more contradictions than most of the ladies I sketch. P
erhaps that’s part of your attraction, Megan. You don’t always do exactly what I would expect of a young woman in your proper position. It’s entertaining to watch you. But you haven’t answered my question, you know.”

  I made up my mind abruptly, dismissing his nonsense. “If what you’ve told me is true, then Mr. Reid is playing an inexcusable trick on me, amusing himself at my expense and the expense of his wife. But how am I to know what the truth is? You’ve repeated gossip, and gossip is not my affair. I’ll take the children to the performance when the time comes. Their enjoyment is more important than what people think.”

  With that, I hoped I had settled Andrew, Brandon Reid, and my own conscience in one swoop.

  “Bravo!” Andrew cried and reached across the table to cover my hand with his own. A mustachioed Italian gentleman at the next table smiled in approval and toasted us gallantly with his glass of wine.

  “To be perfectly fair,” Andrew said, “Brandon Reid is not wholly to blame. What else is a man to do when he’s married to a woman who loves only his dead brother?”

  So that was it? No wonder Mr. Reid so often seemed chill and remote and unhappy. I remembered the warm looks I had seen him turn upon the beautiful Leslie and the cool way in which she seemed to slip away from him. That felicitous scene at the dinner table my first night in the house must have been make-believe after all. And that was sad to contemplate.

  “Come now,” Andrew said. “Don’t feel too sorry for him. He’s not the man to suffer long from unrequited love. He has an appeal for silly women. Don’t let it touch you, Megan.”