Window on the Square

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “What do you do with these?” he asked.

  I told him they were used for embroidering a pattern on a lady’s gown.

  He rolled a few of the shiny beads out upon the table and studied them for some time in silence. This way and that he pushed them, as if he were attempting some design. I waited for him to tell me what he was about.

  “Have you any wire?” he asked me finally.

  I shook my head. “I can let you have some strong thread, but I have no wire.”

  “Mr. Beach will get me some if I ask him,” Jeremy said. “Miss Megan, may I have these beads?”

  “Of course you may have them, Jeremy. Take them all, if you like. And if you want more, I can get them easily.”

  “Thank you,” he said with unwonted courtesy. “I have an idea for a Christmas gift I may make for Uncle Brandon.”

  “That’s fine,” I approved. “Let me know if there’s any way in which I can help you.”

  He nodded absently and did not explain. He took the box of beads away to his room and later I heard him asking Andrew to bring him a few lengths of fine wire.

  Curious and interested though I was, I asked no questions. It was enough that Jeremy seemed more cheerful, that he had some private absorption. Several times he asked me about the play we were going to see and appeared to be looking forward to the occasion.

  On the Saturday morning of the matinee, Mr. Reid appeared in the nursery—there were no lessons that day—to astonish us with an announcement. He had decided, he said, to come with us to the play. It was a fine day, and he expected that we would all enjoy ourselves. He mentioned the time when the carriage would be ready, warned us not to be late, and went out of the room. I could have sworn that he gave me a swift look in which amusement was evident, but he was gone so quickly that I could not be sure.

  The news had a varied effect upon us. Selina clapped her hands in delight and said she would wear her new green dress. Jeremy said nothing, yet there was a glow of pleasure in his eyes that touched me. I only hoped that his uncle would not disappoint him and that this unusual good cheer on the part of Brandon Reid would last through the afternoon.

  My own reaction was curiously mixed. I did not in the least like the quickening of my spirits at the thought of being in his company under more pleasurable circumstances than were usually the case. I told myself several times that morning that his was a violent nature and that this light mood would not last. Surely the man repelled me far more than he attracted me. Besides, in spite of my determination to ignore gossip, Andrew’s words about Cicely Mansfield returned to prick me further with distaste for the children’s uncle. Must he sit with us and dote upon this actress as she coquetted with him from the stage? No—having Brandon Reid with us was an altogether unfortunate turn of events, and his presence would undoubtedly set a blight upon the occasion, regardless of the children’s pleasure.

  So I guided my thoughts and warned myself. At the same time I took great pains when I dressed in my garnet satin, even to the final touch of fastening on my mother’s garnet earrings and sunburst brooch. After all, this was a more suitable occasion for dressing up than the evening of the dinner I’d enjoyed with Andrew Beach. Andrew, I knew very well, would not approve of Mr. Reid’s accompanying presence and I was just as glad he was not about on Saturday to scowl at me and make biting remarks.

  Miss Garth’s reaction was one of outraged indignation. At the moment of Mr. Reid’s announcement she merely smoldered, then looked her disapproval when he had gone out of the room. She released her feelings by telling Selina she had spotted her green dress and could not wear it and she lectured Jeremy on all that his uncle would expect of him by way of good conduct. She did not, however, speak her mind openly until a few moments before we were ready to leave.

  There was a long mirror at the head of the third-floor stairs and I had gone out to examine myself from head to toe. By this time I had thrust back all doubts, shut Andrew out of my mind, and felt as ridiculously gay as though I had been Selina’s age. Or as though a man were taking me alone to the theater. Miss Garth caught me before I could pretend I was only passing the mirror, and she took time to speak her mind in a low, deadly voice.

  “What a little fool you are,” she said. “Don’t think it isn’t clear for whom you’re preening. Do you think he’ll really look at you? It’s hardly likely, when all his attention will be for his inamorata there on the stage.”

  Her words left me shocked and nearly speechless with fury. Before I could manage an indignant retort, or she could continue in this outrageous vein, Selina popped out of her room in a whirl of green silk, spots and all, and hurled herself upon me.

  “Do let’s go downstairs, Miss Megan! It would be dreadful to be late.” Then she saw my dress and circled me in delight. Mischievous and teasing, she might be, but there was a warmth in Selina as well. “Why, you look beautiful!” she cried. “That’s a lovely, lovely red. And you’ve combed your hair in such a pretty way, so it shows under your hat. Uncle Brandon will approve of you … he likes pretty things.”

  Miss Garth fairly snorted, but she said no more. She went off to rout Jeremy from his room, and I tried to put out of my mind the sharp things she had said. I would not listen to gossip. If she thought I was primping for Brandon Reid, then the rest of what she had said was as likely to be untrue. I gave Selina a hug for her compliments and tied her sash a little higher to hide the more prominent spottiness. The frock, quite aside from spots, was not as great a success as it should have been, but I was glad it gave Selina pleasure.

  Miss Garth returned in a moment with Jeremy and now she was doing her best to make him uncomfortable.

  “This is altogether too much excitement,” she said. “The boy will be sick at his stomach, you’ll see. Probably disgrace you all right there in the box. And that will teach his uncle to take him out in public.”

  She made me so angry that if the children hadn’t been present I would have given her a piece of my mind. The sooner I persuaded Mr. Reid to put the boy wholly into my hands, the better. There was at least a quiet acceptance between Jeremy and me by now, and the pretense of being a seamstress alone need not be continued.

  Having given us the worst possible send-off, Miss Garth flounced away to her room and I held out a hand to each child so that we could walk downstairs together in a gay and friendly fashion.

  “Don’t you worry,” I told Jeremy. “You’ve eaten nothing to make you ill. And besides, happiness never upsets anyone. This is going to be a lovely day.”

  Brandon Reid was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. He had an approving word because we were a good two minutes ahead of time, and he admired our dressed-up state collectively, with no special compliments for anyone. As he helped me into my dolman, I noted how very fine he looked. Though that was not unusual. Under the black Inverness cape that he wore with such aplomb, his suit was a fine weave of broadcloth in pearl gray, and when he had settled us in the carriage he put on his pearl-gray topper. We could not, I thought, have found a more distinguished-looking, more striking escort in all New York.

  As Fuller flapped the reins and the carriage drew away from the curb, something made me glance up at the front of the house we were leaving. A woman stood at a window on the second floor, and, with a start, I saw that it was Leslie Reid. Until now she had not appeared to say good-by to either her husband or the children, and the glimpse of her at the window disturbed me. So often Mrs. Reid seemed hardly more than a shadowy background figure in the house. Her frequent headaches, the spells of illness that made her languid and given to remaining in bed for days at a time, removed her from the rest of us so that we almost forgot her presence. Now it was as though I had glimpsed a melancholy ghost watching us from an unreal world of candlelight and violets.

  No one else saw her, and, as we drove away, I did not look back. Yet the memory of her standing there was not something I could easily shake off.

  The children’s uncle was in an extraordinarily
light mood, and I suspected that he had made a pact with himself to give Selina, and particularly Jeremy, a pleasant afternoon.

  The theater was just off Union Square, and carriages were already drawing up before the doors when we arrived. By the time Mr. Reid had handed us into the blue, white, and gold auditorium, and had settled us in the best seats of our box, we were all atingle with excitement. Jeremy was quiet, but there was a shine in his eyes that delighted me and he missed nothing as the house filled up. From the vantage point of our lower box, we could look out over the entire sweep of the theater. I could not help but note, however, that Brandon Reid remained in the shadows at the rear of the box and made no attempt to join us in our scrutiny of the house.

  Once he leaned forward to speak to me. “Do you like the seats?”

  I could only nod raptly. I had never sat in so fine a place before and I didn’t dare try to tell him how I felt, lest I sound as young and enraptured as Selina. At last the house lights went down, the rustling of programs quieted, and the gas-jet footlights came on in all their brilliance against the lowered curtain.

  Cicely Mansfield did not appear until near the end of the first scene, and the play moved with an amusing sparkle toward the moment of her entrance. Then she whirled onstage with the gaiety that was so essentially hers and from that moment on took possession of the audience.

  I edged a little forward in my seat because I wanted to see exactly what sort of woman she was. Certainly she was not beautiful—not in the sense that Leslie Reid was a beauty. Pretty—yes, and with a warmth about her that reached across the footlights to embrace the audience. “Of course you love me,” she seemed to be saying. “You love me because I love you!”

  The play was light froth. The children loved it, and I laughed aloud with them. Once, when I glanced back at Mr. Reid, seated in the shadowy rear, I saw that he was not even watching the stage. Indeed, he looked as though he might be dozing. Of course he must have seen the play before—perhaps several times. Yet I would have expected him to feast his eyes upon Miss Mansfield at every opportunity and this display of indifference gave me a sudden hope that the gossip, after all, was untrue. Or, if there had ever been any truth in it, perhaps the affair was well in the past. Even as the thought came to mind, my own readiness to be pleased, to hope that the gossip was untrue, dismayed me as something shameful. There in the darkened theater I could feel the burning of my cheeks, the unwelcome quickening of my heartbeat. Why should I care? Why should I be concerned one way or another with Brandon Reid’s past or present infidelities?

  When the curtain came down on the first act, I tried to applaud with as much eagerness as the children. Perhaps they had not understood every line, but the pace was fast and I felt I had chosen well for their pleasure.

  During the interval I watched the rustling theater with interest. In the box directly across from us several women had gathered for this matinee, and I realized that opera glasses were being turned upon us and that the ladies were whispering to each other. Did this mean that Selina and Jeremy had been recognized?

  Mr. Reid spoke from the shadows. “The twittering has begun. The ladies in the opposite box are puzzled about your identity.”

  “Why should they be puzzled?” I asked, not turning my head. “I’m obviously here with the children.”

  His voice went on softly, mockingly. “Since you scarcely look like a governess, they’re wondering who it can be who is so new and fashionable in town and has escaped their attention.”

  For the first time I realized the impropriety of my dress. As the children had dressed up for theatergoing, so had I, and my gown was quite suitable for a matinee had I been here in a social position. As it was, I should have clung to my dove gray or wren brown.

  “We might as well give them something to twitter about,” Mr. Reid went on, and before I knew what he was about, he left the dark recesses of the box and stepped to the rail beside me, holding out a program, bending over my shoulder as though he pointed something out.

  “Please don’t,” I said. “You’re quite right that I shouldn’t have dressed like this. I’m sorry, Mr. Reid.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told me, impatient again. “You’re more bearable to look at the way you are this afternoon than in those drab things you wear at home.”

  A retort was rising indignantly to my lips when the curtains at the rear of the box parted and an usher appeared with a note for Mr. Reid. He took it, frowning, and read it through.

  “It appears,” he said, “that I will have to go backstage for a moment.”

  He bowed to us and was gone so quickly that I could only stare at the blue velvet curtains swaying gently from the briskness of his passing. He had gone backstage to see Miss Mansfield—that was evident. He had not even troubled to dissemble. And he had not minded in the least if I knew what he was about. I began to fume inwardly, though I kept my feelings from the children.

  So I was more “bearable” to look at today and he did not care for the way I dressed at home! He behaved as though I had no feelings, no pride. Andrew was right, and Brandon Reid was an insufferable person. He had the arrogance and lack of consideration that was sometimes typical of the wealthy—particularly when wealth was inherited instead of earned. I bit my lips and kept my gaze from the interest of that opposite box. By the time the curtain rose on the second act, I had studied its slightly rippling scene until I knew every painted line by heart.

  Mr. Reid was late in returning and he uttered no apology as he slipped into his chair. I did not look at him, but kept my attention fixed upon the play. Though the second act was even more lively than the first, my pleasure in the production had faded. Once or twice it seemed to me that Cicely Mansfield glanced directly at our box and that her famous smile was flung rather challengingly in our direction.

  During the second-act intermission Mr. Reid seemed restless and increasingly bored. Once or twice he pulled out his handsome gold watch and studied the time, toying with the long chain that looped across his waistcoat. He had dropped all pretense of playing the role of benevolent uncle and he made no further effort to keep the children happy. It was at this worst possible moment that Selina asked the question she had been saving up for hours.

  “Uncle Brandon,” she said, “what is an inamorata? At home Garthy and Miss Megan were talking about your having one.”

  In spite of the voices and rustling all through the theater, there seemed an area of deadly quiet about our box. I felt cold perspiration dampen the palms of my hands, but my mind was blank of any possible response. There was, after all, nothing I could say, no defense I could offer.

  After a moment of endless silence, Mr. Reid addressed Selina coldly. “I suggest, my dear, that you ask Miss Kincaid for the answer to that question. I suspect that by now she is an authority on the subject.”

  His words shocked and angered me, yet still I could not answer him. My position was one I could not readily defend, however indignant I might be, however unfair his attack.

  He rose and made us an elaborate bow that must have been quite visible to anyone in the theater who happened to be looking.

  “I hope you will excuse me from remaining for the rest of the play. I confess that it bores me and I am never willingly bored for long. I’m sure you can get the children home, Miss Kincaid. I will not need the carriage.”

  I said nothing at all, and in a moment he was gone, completely spoiling our afternoon.

  I knew it was spoiled even before Selina’s wail of protest. I saw the withdrawal in Jeremy’s eyes and knew that he was blaming himself, however mistakenly, for this sudden departure. He had been quietly enjoying both the play and his uncle’s company. I had sensed this in the way he hung on Brandon Reid’s every word and gave him all his attention. I tried to find some lame excuse for his uncle’s going, but I think not even Selina believed me. Both knew that he had lost interest in our company and taken himself away because he did not care to be with us any longer.

  Throug
h the final act any last trace of embarrassment I might have felt died away as my anger increased. Neither the children nor I had deserved such treatment. His lack of consideration, his indifference to the feelings of others was insufferable. When the opportunity arose I would tell him so—and let him dismiss me if he liked.

  Andrew was right, and I should have listened to him!

  We were far from gay on the drive home down Fifth Avenue. When we should have been full of talk about the play and still under the spell of the theater, no one had any desire to talk.

  Just before we reached Washington Square, the first snow of the winter began to fall, drifting down lightly, thickly, with every promise of going on forever.

  At least Jeremy waited until he was home before fulfilling Miss Garth’s prophecy and being dreadfully ill. We were busy with him all evening long.

  When it was that my employer came home that night, or if he came home at all, I did not know. And I certainly did not care. What I had to say to him would not lose its strength by waiting.

  TEN

  Church bells wakened me the next morning, and I heard the whisper of snow against the pane. I left my bed with the eagerness one feels to view the unsullied beauty of winter’s first snowfall.

  White fringe clung to the branches of the ailanthus, and a quilting lay thick upon my window sill. Drab rooftops were padded with white coverlets, and the chimneys wore little caps of snow. Even the dreary alley of the mews had been touched with beauty. Fuller was already up and busily shoveling a path from carriage house to back door. The hush of a snowstorm lay upon the city.

  I pulled on my wrapper and went to light the fire. Usually on Sundays I traveled some distance by horse-car to the church my mother and I had attended, but I did not want to battle snowdrifts and slowed traffic this morning. I had noticed a church nearby on Fifth Avenue that I might attend. The Reids—Mrs. Reid, at least—went farther uptown to one more fashionable, and the children often accompanied her. What Mr. Reid did I had no idea. One hardly saw him of a Sunday.