Remembering my anger, I fed it anew to make sure the coals remained hot until my opportunity came to confront him and speak my mind. Yet even as I stirred my indignation with reminding, I was troubled by a contrary yearning for peace and quieter thoughts.
Sunday had one rather pleasant aspect, for it was the day when Miss Garth went home to visit her elderly father. She waited till after churchtime and midday Sunday dinner, then took herself off, and was gone for the afternoon and most of the evening. Thus for part of the day I had both children to myself unless Mrs. Reid went calling and took Selina with her.
That morning Jeremy did not rise for breakfast, and when I looked in on him, I found him listless and interested in nothing. There was no more to look forward to now, and the reality of the matinee had disappointed him. Not even my inquiry as to how the gift for his uncle progressed roused him from apathy. He had kept the secret of what he was making, working on it only when he was alone. This morning that interest too had forsaken him.
I needed my escape to church. Apparently the snow had changed Mrs. Reid’s plans and Selina was not going out with her, so both children were left in Miss Garth’s charge until I returned.
Our front steps had been swept of one layer of snow, but already they had filmed over as the thick fall continued. At least the fall lacked the biting sting of a blizzard. The flakes fell, slow and thick, without wind to set them whirling. Washington Square was a great white field, its dull browns hidden and every bush and tree wearing puffs of white. Snow lay thick upon the fountain, and a few sparrows hopped about its rim, seeking the crumbs some kindly citizen had sprinkled there.
My skirts brushed the snow, and I lifted them high so that I would not sit indoors with their wet hems against me. The effort of tramping through snow that had not yet crusted to offer solid footing, set my blood tingling by the time I reached my destination three blocks away. There was the usual traffic on the Avenue, with a few sleighs adding their melodic jingling of bells to the sounds of this snowy Sunday.
The church was small and built of the same brown-stone that was quarried across the Hudson at Weehawken, furnishing a favored building material for so many New York homes and buildings. In contrast the steeple wore a frosting of white and the doors and windows were bright with welcome. I entered the enclosure of a little iron fence and went up the steps along with others who had not been kept home by the storm.
The organist was playing, and the deep full tones sounded through the quiet place and added to the feeling of light and warmth and peace that met me as I stepped inside. I sought a long bench near the rear and took a seat near the wall aisle where I might be alone and quiet with my thoughts. This moment before the service began was always one I prized. I could make my own prayers best and did not need a minister to tell me how to pray.
Quietly, avoiding the banked fires of my anger, I went over in my mind the disturbing problem of Jeremy Reid. More than anything else I needed strength and guidance to help him. A beginning had been made. He must not be allowed to slip back into the old way that was so filled with darkness for him. It was for these things I asked in my heart that quiet Sunday morning.
The little church was filling up, and before long the choir began to sing. The congregation rose to join in a hymn, and at length the minister took the pulpit to give his sermon. By now my disquiet was stilled and I felt hushed and strengthened. I knew that when the time came I would fight for Jeremy with renewed courage and vigor.
I will confess that I did not at first follow every word the minister spoke. I prefer a quiet preacher, and this man was breathing fire. Nevertheless, when he launched into an attack upon the wave of crime which held New York in a fearsome grip, I began to listen. Vice and corruption were the sins of man, the minister admonished us, but with the help of men of good will, they could be opposed and stamped out.
Not long ago there had been a man in New York, he reminded the congregation, who had fought against these things with courage and selflessness. This good fight had been led to a great extent by Dwight Reid, and the good he had begun was now being carried on by others. We must remember that early in January the Dwight Reid Memorial Home for children was to be opened with a ceremony which he hoped many of us would attend, and he advised us to contribute to the cause. The building itself was virtually completed, but its running must be assured for years to come.
A collection was taken for this cause, and, as I made my contribution, I thought of the day when Jeremy had run away to this very building of which the minister spoke. In the boy’s mind the place must seem to offer refuge to the son of the man it honored.
When the service was over and the congregation began to file out, I sat on for a few moments, waiting for the church to empty. Then I left my seat and stepped into the uncrowded wall aisle, turning toward the back of the church. Two rows behind me another woman had waited for the crowd to thin before leaving her seat. She sat with her head bent, her furs drawn closely about her, as though she were cold in this stove-heated interior. With a start I recognized the brown feathered hat with glossy wings of red hair showing beneath, and in the moment of my recognition, Leslie Reid looked up and met my eyes. For an instant I thought she would look away purposely, not choosing to see me. Then she seemed to reconsider and nodded in my direction. She rose, edging along the row. I waited, and, when she reached me, she indicated a side door that offered an easy exit.
Outside the snow was deep in the churchyard, and we clasped hands in order to help each other through it to a side gate. We did not speak until we were on the sidewalk, moving toward the Avenue. Then Mrs. Reid threw me a quick melancholy look.
“I did not want to be recognized,” she explained softly. “There would have been a great to-do if someone had seen me there. But I knew this sermon was to be preached and I wanted to hear it.”
She appeared gently sad this morning and not so far removed as she had sometimes seemed before. As always, I beheld her beauty with wonder that a woman could be so lovely. Her skin at close range seemed flawless, the lashes that shadowed her eyes were thick and upward-curling, her brows neatly drawn in a line of perfection. This was the woman Brandon Reid had married. How could he look at Cicely Mansfield?
I was surprised when she began to speak to me, not as if I were a semi-servant in her house, but a woman in whom she could confide. The imperious manner had vanished.
“Nothing must happen to keep the Memorial Home from opening,” she said, speaking from behind the shelter of the muff she held to her cheek. “The good my husband began must live on. It must not be wasted.”
“Is there any danger that it won’t open?” I asked, a little startled by her outburst.
“There must not be!” she cried vehemently. “Though from the first my husband has set himself against the entire project.”
It seemed strange that Brandon Reid should oppose what was done to honor his brother, and I said as much, with something less than tact.
Mrs. Reid threw me a quick, tragic look. “Brandon has always been envious of Dwight. From the time they were children, it was Dwight who did everything well, Brandon whose aims were futile. The older brother has never forgiven the younger for being all he was not.”
It did not seem that such a word as “futile” could be used in regard to Brandon Reid, but it was not for me to defend him to his wife. I offered no comment, and for nearly a block she was silent. When she spoke again it was in a lost, sad tone.
“Dwight died in January and my father in March. Within two months of each other. This time of the year, as we move toward January, always seems unhappy to me.”
I felt a little impatient with her. I could sympathize with suffering such as she had endured. I had known suffering too, and great loss. But it seemed to me that she had every resource within her grasp for renewed happiness.
“Most of my family is gone now,” she went on. “My father, Hobart Rolfe, built a house on the Hudson River to please my mother. When the financial crash ruined
him, that was all that remained. Our home on Bleecker Street was merely loaned us by a friend. Now my mother lives alone up the Hudson. Perhaps I’ll visit her soon, if I can persuade my husband to take me up there. Perhaps it would do me good to get away from New York for a little while.”
There was a plaintive note in her voice, as though she had been dwelling too long in solitude on old grievances.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy a trip up the Hudson,” I said cheerfully.
She sighed. “How wonderful to have such robust good health as you enjoy, Miss Kincaid. You seem not to know what it is like to have a day’s illness.”
I suppressed a desire to tell her that I was too busy to afford time for illness. It was clear, I think, to everyone in the house that Leslie Reid’s poor health had its basis more in her mind than in her body. Doctors kept her plied with nostrums but seemed unable to do anything for her.
“What of the children while you are away?” I asked.
“We plan to take Selina with us,” Mrs. Reid said. “Miss Garth will remain here with Jeremy. The boy doesn’t travel well, and it’s wiser not to take him.”
Besides, you can’t endure him, I thought rebelliously. Perhaps she sensed my unspoken criticism, for she gave me a wistful smile.
“I know you think I am ungrateful, Miss Kincaid, and that isn’t wholly true. I believe you are trying very hard to help Jeremy and I hope with all my heart that something can be done for him. In the meantime the thing that concerns me most is his continued association with Selina.”
“He likes his sister,” I said in quick defense. “He never minds her teasing, and I think he has a real affection for her.” Then, since I had gone this far, I decided to go farther. “I feel, however, that Miss Garth is often too severe with the boy. He’s still recovering from a serious shock and should be dealt with more gently.”
“I’ll speak to her,” Mrs. Reid promised. “I know she believes in bringing up children very strictly. After all, she was my governess when I was a young girl. Undoubtedly she feels privileged in my family. I trust her judgment completely, but I’ll try to persuade her to be more lenient with Jeremy, if you think that is wise.”
Such a concession surprised and pleased me, though I doubted that it would have much effect on Thora Garth. At least Mrs. Reid seemed more human this Sunday morning, less remote, less chilly and superior. I wondered if she were perhaps a rather shy person, since shyness can often make one seem unfriendly.
As we neared Washington Square we found the sidewalks fairly well shoveled and the walking became easier. Mrs. Reid, however, did not quicken her pace. Indeed, she seemed to slow her steps even more.
“You enjoyed the play yesterday?” she asked suddenly, and I saw the rising color in her pale cheeks.
“It was quite amusing,” I answered carefully. “The children enjoyed it very much.”
“And this actress—this Cicely Mansfield? I’ve never seen her. What is she like?”
I could not meet the entreaty in her eyes. “She seems a gifted comedienne,” I admitted.
“Is she—is she very beautiful?”
Mrs. Reid had forgotten to shield her cheeks with her muff and white flakes fell upon her uplifted face unheeded, or were caught and held for an instant in those breathlessly long lashes. I warmed toward her more than I ever had before, and my resentment against Brandon Reid deepened.
“Miss Mansfield isn’t beautiful at all,” I assured her quickly. “She’s rather pretty and she has a certain charm and good humor. Nothing more.”
Mrs. Reid seemed to take a pitiful comfort from my words, and I felt both touched and distressed by this revelation. It seemed likely that Andrew was wrong about her love for the younger brother and that Leslie Reid had far more of an interest in the husband she treated so coolly than he suspected.
Yet even as I considered this, she spoke of Dwight again, repeating without self-consciousness some compliment he had paid her. Perhaps she wanted to show me that she had once been placed very high in the estimation of a man she had loved.
My feelings were a mingling of embarrassment and pity, so that it was a relief when we reached the house. I was no little disturbed by this glimpse behind the mask of Leslie Reid’s cool, untouchable beauty. There was an indication of hidden fire here, and it troubled me. Jeremy’s mother was not indifferent after all, but driven in contrary directions by her own unhappy memories.
When we entered the house, I went at once to the third floor. I could hear voices in the nursery, and knew Miss Garth was there with the children. As I turned toward the rear, the door of the schoolroom opened and to my surprise Andrew Beach looked out at me. Ordinarily he did not come to the house during the weekend.
“How did the matinee go?” he asked without preliminary greeting.
I was deliberately casual. “Well enough. The children seemed to enjoy the play.”
“And the master?” Andrew persisted, quirking a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Perhaps you’d better ask him,” I said firmly. “Why are you here today?”
“I’m to be given an extra sitting for the portrait.” He gestured toward the room behind him. “Come and see what I’m doing.”
It was the first time he had offered to show me the portrait, and I followed him into the schoolroom, where an easel stood near a window. On it rested a small canvas—the unfinished portrait of a woman and a child. I studied it with interest.
Andrew had captured the sauciness of Selina’s expression, the flyaway quality of her fair hair, the suggestion of ready laughter around her mouth. Work on the child’s face was well along toward completion. The mother was still no more than a hazy suggestion—the oval of a face with an ethereal beauty about it and more than a hint of sadness. So it was the ghostly Leslie he meant to paint—though apparently without the plaintive, self-pitying quality so often evident.
“She’s very hard to catch,” he said. “I’m still groping for the right approach.”
I thought of the several Leslie Reids I had seen—the imperious mistress, the all-but-forgotten sick woman in a candlelit room, and in contrast the emotion-torn wife I had met just now in the church.
“I’m not sure you’ve found it,” I said thoughtfully. “First you will have to decide which Mrs. Reid you will paint.”
Andrew smiled. “I suspected that you’d not approve. Don’t underestimate her, Megan. There may be more there than meets the indifferent eye. But at least our little seamstress has got the master out of the way long enough to notice the mistress.”
The anger that flared in me was out of proportion to the cause, and it was as well that I was saved an answer by Kate’s sudden appearance in the doorway.
“Mrs. Reid is ready if you’ll come for the sitting now,” she said to Andrew, and then spoke breathlessly to me. “Mr. Reid has been asking for you all morning, miss. Will you please go to the library at once.”
I nodded to her and went to my room without another look at Andrew or his portrait. Once there, I did not hurry. As I took off my mantle and bonnet and combed the black bangs over my forehead, my reflection in the glass startled me. With the mere mention of Brandon Reid’s name an angry light had come into my eyes. I might be dressed as a brown wren, but an indignation, further aroused by Andrew, had given me life. It was not displeasing to find that I looked ready for battle.
When I went down, I found the library door open and my employer standing before the pedestal on which rested the Osiris head. He seemed to be studying it in complete concentration, though he sensed my presence and spoke to me without looking around.
“Come in, Miss Kincaid, and close the door behind you, please.”
My movements were decisive, my step firm. There was no banking of angry fires now. I walked straight toward him, meaning to speak my mind quickly and have it over with. Unfortunately this determination went unnoted and he spoke first.
“I never tire of the artistry of such sculpture,” he said and drew an admiring finger along the
proud Egyptian nose. “How well it reveals the man behind the god. Look at those elongated eyes. They aren’t wholly the eyes of a stylized pattern. There’s thought and intelligence there. But what I like best is the humor of the mouth.”
His finger moved, touching the wide, full lips that were strangely like his own—though it seemed to me that the mouth of the man lacked the humor he admired in the statue. However, I had not come here to discuss an Egyptian head. I braced my shoulders and spoke before he could stop me again.
“I don’t wish to remain in this house under a false pretense, Mr. Reid. I must express myself concerning your conduct yesterday.”
This opening remark, stiff-sounding to my own ears, at least arrested his attention. He gave me a quick, startled look and pulled a chair toward the comfortable fire.
“You needn’t stand up like a schoolmistress while you lecture me. Come and sit here. You can be just as indignant with me sitting as standing.”
I did not mean to be disarmed and made fun of. I stayed where I was.
“In the first place,” I continued, “it was not necessary for you to accompany the children to the play. But since you chose to do so, it was your obligation to carry the afternoon off cheerfully. Since you started out with a pose of good humor, you should have continued it, whatever the effort cost you. You had no right to vent your own displeasures and private resentments upon two children. Particularly upon Jeremy. He was ill last night. This morning he didn’t want to get up and he has lost the progress he has been making in the last few weeks. I feel that the blame is yours.”
I paused, a little astonished at my own outburst, but not in the least regretting it. His face was expressionless, guarded. He stood at ease before me, listening—and I could not tell at all what my words meant to him, or what their effect might be. When he stepped toward me suddenly and put his thin, strong hands upon my shoulders, I gasped. I could feel their warmth and strength through the goods of my dress.
Window on the Square Page 11
