Victoria shrugged and said without irony, "You know how it is: same old same old. You get used to it, like a job sorting mail. Are you sure you've made the right career choice?" she added. "Anyway, trust me — this event will be worth it," she promised.
She began over. "'Last week I attended an amusing affair at East Gate,'" she read, glancing up at Liz with a look of triumph.
Liz became quiet. Not outwardly — outwardly, she was leaning forward in the wing chair, breathless to hear this of all the letters. But deep inside, in her soul — that's where she became very, very still. She felt as if she were at the altar of some great truth; that some impossibly difficult code was about to be deciphered with the key that Victoria was holding in her hand.
Victoria read on, in a deeply pleased voice:
The event was a fête champêtre, hosted by John and Lavinia Eastman, a coolly old-fashioned couple in this overheated age. I have written before of their moody, reckless son, the artist who so rudely removed me from his studio last year. To this day, there is little love lost between Christopher Eastman and me, but his mother, who is anxious to communicate with a recently departed aunt, has decided to take me up. To that end, she invited me to the festivity of which I now write.
Lavinia Eastman had urged me to come early so that we might make arrangements for a sitting later in the week. This we did, and as we had time to spare before the arrival of the first guests, she carried me off to the dining hall so that I might admire the artful arrangement of the table.
It was charmingly done up in a seashore theme. Shells and beach roses were scattered freely up and down the service. The centerpiece was a stunning tableau, rendered in crystal, of a mermaid cavorting with dolphins amid roiling seas.
At each place setting there was a small child's bucket, filled with sand and with a shovel stuck into it. A nice bit of whimsy, I thought, and remarked upon the fact — though I could not help feeling that very soon we should all be tasting sand in our soup. Lavinia was pleased with my enthusiasm and boasted happily that she had hit upon the sand buckets as an ideal way to present the guests with their party favors.
She told me that her son Christopher had been assigned the pleasant task of inserting a semiprecious gemstone — tourmaline, amethyst, citrine, agate, topaz, and the like — into each of the buckets. Later, the guests would be instructed to take up their shovels and dig for their treasures. As I say: sand in the soup.
I thought no more about it — the favors were neither diamonds nor rubies, after all — until a few minutes later, when I returned to the room to fetch my spectacles, which I had left behind. I was about to leave when my nemesis came in to do his mother's bidding. He did not see me, and as I felt rather awkward about engaging him alone, I tucked myself behind a carved leather screen that stood nearby and waited for him to be done.
From the crevice between the panels I was able to observe his very odd behavior. The young man walked directly up to one of the settings and replaced the place card with one he had brought with him. Then he made a quick circuit of the table, carelessly pushing a gemstone into each of the buckets. When he returned to his original setting, the one with the new place card, he took a small pin from the pocket of his dinner jacket and, with a smile, stuck it, instead of a gemstone, into the sand.
Consumed with curiosity, I went directly to the altered place card after he left the room and read it. I did not recognize the last name, but I certainly knew the first: Ophelia, the servant with whom he had been having the affair! I had heard nothing about the matter lately and had assumed, if I thought about it at all, that the infatuation had passed. "Apparently not," I murmured to myself And then I had an inspiration.
Locating my own placecard, I carefully fished out my favor—a dull little citrine — and switched it with the pin in Ophelia's bucket. As of this writing, I still do not know why. It can hardly have been because I desired the pin, which was a small, quite humble little heart with an insignificant garnet set inside. So it must have been because I wished, purely and simply, to make things as awkward for Christopher Eastman as he had for me that afternoon in his studio a year ago. (You know, dear sister, how I can be.)
It was clear to me, as I left the dining room in haste, that this besotted man had every intention of forcing his paramour on Newport society. Perhaps, I thought, the pin was meant to be the catalyst to an announcement of his betrothal to Ophelia, or even a public proposal of marriage to her; the man was outrageous enough to do either. I had no doubt that Ophelia would present very well — in the nude paintings she had presented very well indeed — but I could not imagine how he dared risk his parents' wrath.
Still, it was obvious to all that his mother doted on him. She respected and trusted her older son, who had already assumed the responsibility of running the family's large holdings. But it was her younger son whom she loved, and dearly. As a consequence, he probably realized that the risk was not—
Victoria looked up through a mist of happy tears and folded the pages of the letter gently on her lap. "So now we know," she said with a limpid smile.
Liz was so thoroughly prepared to hear the end of the tale that she simply sat there, waiting for more. And yet it was clear that there was no more. She said stupidly, "You're not going to finish the letter?"
Victoria sighed, then leaned over and handed Liz the folded, heavy sheets. "This is all there is, this middle section. The pages weren't dated — they weren't even numbered — so I'd stuck them in one of the ‘miscellaneous' shoeboxes. I guess they should've gone in the 1896 shoebox."
"But that can‘t be all," Liz wailed. "Did you look through everything else in the miscellaneous boxes?"
"I didn't read every word; but there were no other sheets with the same ink and nib. And you know how erratic her handwriting is; nothing else there matched this style, which is oddly legible — for her, anyway."
Victoria undid the clasp of the heart that was pinned to the lapel of her blouse. "So now we know," she repeated, studying the little bauble that lay in the palm of her hand. "Isn't it amazing? You see so many pins in flea markets ... in antique shops ... at yard sales ... and you never have a clue how they got there. But we know exactly how this pin ended up in your red-lacquered box."
Liz wasn't as satisfied as her friend. In a fit of frustration she flung the pages into the fireplace, where they got hung up in a basket of dried flowers that she'd placed on the metal grate for the summer.
"Oh, I can't believe it!" she said, jumping up from her chair and pacing the three strides up and then down the length of the room. "I simply can't believe it! I'm going to go out of my mind if I don't resolve this soon."
Victoria, nestled in the down-filled cushions of the chintz sofa, was puzzled. "Resolve what?" she asked, clearly amazed by Liz's reaction. "We know now where the pin came from—"
"We know practically nothing!" Liz said angrily. "We know Victoria St. Onge stole the pin. We don't know why she stole it — she didn't know why — and we certainly don't know why she kept it."
"That's true, but—"
"And Christopher Eastman! Did he marry Ophelia or not? Obviously not," she said, answering her own question. "His wife was blond; Ophelia was a redhead. I don't understand; what could've happened? Oh, damn, damn, damn."
"How do you know his wife was a blonde?"
"Jack told me."
"Jack!"
"And why does he keep appearing to me, anyway? What does he want?"
"What! He's appeared more than once?"
"Twice. Where do I fit in? Where do you fit in?"
"Twice! But where—? No; tell me later. I can answer your last question, and I will!" said Victoria. She got up to retrieve the letter fragment from the fireplace grate, then carried the pages over to the foyer table that stood, in lieu of a larger table, behind one end of the chintz-covered sofa. For a moment she stood quite still, with her back to Liz, as if she were composing herself before a difficult feat of acrobatics.
She turned and
said, "Listen to me, Elizabeth!" in a voice that was shaking with excitement. "I know exactly where I fit in. Finally. Now that I've found the letter." Her eyes were deep green pools of liquid fire.
Liz, herself a jumble of conflicting impulses, took one look at Victoria and decided that each of them, in her own special way, had completely lost touch with reality.
Victoria took Liz by the hand and led her to the sofa. She laid the heart-shaped pin in Liz's hand, then placed her own hand over it and held it there. Lowering her voice to a breathy whisper, she said, "I'm here — I came back — to return the pin to its rightful owner."
"He's dead," said Liz. "Despite what I may have implied."
"Not Christopher. Jack. His heir." Victoria smiled dreamily and took the heart back, then pinned it to her blouse.
Liz watched her do it, hypnotized by the simple, ordinary act. "You honestly think that Christopher Eastman is haunting the area because he wants that dinky pin back?"
Without in the least taking offense, Victoria said, "The pin must've had some sentimental value. He could've afforded to give Ophelia a diamond necklace if he'd wanted to."
"Not necessarily. He was a younger son, remember."
"Even so. He could've done better than this," Victoria said, tapping the heart that lay across her own heart.
They became silent a moment, each of them caught up in her own thoughts. By now, there was little doubt in Liz's mind that some strange game was afoot, and that she had a role to play in it. The game was perhaps not so complex as chess, but neither was it as straightforward as Parcheesi. It fell, like life itself, somewhere in between. Victoria had figured out the rules — at least, as they applied to her — but Liz was still reading the back of the game box, scratching her head and wondering what the ultimate goal was, and just how many players were allowed.
"What will you do?" Liz asked, suppressing a sigh.
"Return it, of course."
"I suppose that's reasonable," Liz allowed. "Technically the pin was stolen — although if it was special, I wonder why Christopher Eastman never bothered to get it back from Victoria St. Onge."
She tried to imagine a scenario but came up empty. "Damn," she added in a soft, sad voice. "I wish we had the rest of the letter."
"Why?" asked Victoria, shooting Liz a surprised look. "We don't need it." Clearly she felt none of Liz's sense of being adrift. "As soon as I sneak the pin back—"
"Sneak it back? Why wouldn't you just explain to Jack what happened and hand it over? Show him the letter if you like," Liz added with a shrug. "I don't care." She wouldn't allow herself to care — not where Jack was concerned. Not after the other night. She didn't dare; who knows how badly she'd get hurt?
Victoria shook her head, sending long red spirals of hair sailing back and forth. "The pin was sneaked out; it has to be sneaked back in. Into Jack's bedroom would be best. I'll do it when we're over there this weekend for the company picnic."
Liz tried to argue with her over taking such an unnecessary risk, but Victoria seemed to find a rough cosmic justice in exposing herself to it. "It must be done my way," she said simply. "This is why I'm here. This is what the last six years have been leading up to: to return this pin. It must be done ... my way.
"So! Now that that's resolved," she said cheerfully to Liz, changing the subject, "can we back up a little? When did Christopher Eastman appear to you the second time?"
With considerable reluctance, Liz drew a brief, vague sketch of the gentleman in yachting duds that she'd seen on the deck of the Déjà Vu. "I suppose I was projecting like mad," she said, admitting the obvious. "I was so impressed by the boat: it was in such original pristine condition. No Formica, no Ultrasuede. Stepping aboard was like stepping back a hundred years; all it lacked was a Gilded Age owner."
"Which you conjured up?" asked Victoria, smiling. "I don't think so. We know what we know," she said cryptically. "I have to say — the boat does sound exceptional."
"You have no idea. I doubt that the yacht has suffered a day of neglect in its life. I mean, there was another boat in the yard of about the same vintage—the interior had been vandalized, actually — and it was in just awful shape. It was little more than a piece of flotsam: peeling paint, duct tape around the portholes, a bilge pump that never stopped pumping. What a contrast. All I can say is, I hope I look as good at a hundred as the Déjà Vu does."
"I want to go out on it sometime," Victoria decided.
"You and Susy," said Liz. "She acted as if she owned the thing. I can't get over the girl," she added, aware that the only way her daughter was ever going to get a boat ride was at Disney World with her grandparents. "Sometimes I think she's a changeling."
Victoria's laughter had a surprisingly melancholy lilt to it. "When you think about it," she said softly, "aren't we all, at some point in our lives?"
Chapter 12
The hurricane ended up veering off the coast and heading out to sea, and Netta, for one, was glad. They had enough on their minds without worrying where to find seventy or eighty umbrellas.
Such a week! Why, the old place hadn't seen such bustling since — "Well, I can't remember when," said the housekeeper to David Penny as he nailed a makeshift table together on the grounds at East Gate.
"I suppose it would be for Mr. Eastman's thirtieth wedding anniversary. You weren't working at the shipyard then, David. But take my word for it; it was quite the gala affair, even for Newport."
The carpenter, dripping wet from his efforts to hurry the project through before the guests arrived, wiped his forehead on his arm and said laconically, "No, that'd be before my time. Just like this here's after my time."
"I know, I know," Netta said, clucking sympathetically. "Any luck finding another job, dear?"
"Bits and pieces here and there," David said, sliding his hammer through his belt like Wyatt Earp would a sixshooter. "Keeps me busy."
"Is Cynthia coming?"
"She wouldn't miss it."
"I still think you should stay, David. You're perfectly entitled to.''
"Nope," he said, throwing his shoulders back with proud resolve. "Got work to do."
Netta suspected that he'd feel embarrassed to be among his old co-workers. And really, it was a little awkward, with Cynthia getting her job at the shipyard just because of him, and now him out of his own job. Well, he shouldn't have got so full of himself and quit. Not before he had a better offer lined up, anyway. Still, Jack was trying to use him whenever he could for odd jobs; that was a nice thing. And Cynthia's medical covered them both. Things could be worse.
David picked up the scraps of lumber and hauled them out to his pickup, and Netta threw a gingham-checked tablecloth over the unpainted impromptu table. Lucky for them that they had extra plywood in the carriage house. Who would've thought that you couldn't rent a table in this town? Even if it was a weekend in July.
Netta hurried back to the house and was surprised to see Victoria and Elizabeth lollygagging in front of one of the ancestral portraits in the cavernous entry hail. There was no law against admiring the artwork, she supposed, but it did seem odd that they were finding the time to do it just now. The shipyard employees and their families would be arriving at any moment, and then who was to say what crises mightn't take place? Look what had happened at Caroline's birthday party, for pity's sake.
She slowed her steps as she approached the two women, not wishing to seem to be rushing them. Victoria With-No-Last-Name: now there was an odd, fey creature. Netta liked her, but she didn't understand her at all. The young woman seemed to have lots of enthusiasm, but Netta could never make out, at any given moment, what exactly the enthusiasm was for. Victoria had the look of someone who's won the lottery but hasn't yet picked up her money.
Look at her, thought Netta. How wide-eyed and excited she is. And over — what? Lavinia Eastman 's cleavage? Because that sure seemed to be what she was pointing at.
And Liz Coppersmith — so calm, so in control all week; but now she was just a
s wide-eyed as the other one. For goodness' sake. Everyone knows that was the style back then. What prudes. And that Madonna woman running around in steel-pointed bras!
Victoria suddenly looked up and spied Netta staring at them, which sent the two women scurrying back to the kitchen like scullery maids, exactly what Netta had wished to avoid. This was their event, not Netta's. In no way were they obliged to her. She was only there to point out where they kept the big pots.
The housekeeper paused before the painting of Lavinia Eastman, wondering what was so all-fired shocking about it. A nice buxom woman with thick dark curls and mischievous eyes: Lavinia was a favorite of Jack's, and Netta could see why. As for the gown, Netta had always rather liked it. It was a simple flowing affair in a pale, creamy color, unadorned except for the small heart-shaped pin at the low point of the bustline. All in all, a much more appealing package than Lavinia's more fetchingly painted daughter-in-law, whose portrait faced opposite.
Netta gave that one — Blue Brunhilde, she called it — her usual frown. Netta had always liked the skill of the painter more than the subject. Brunhilde was tall, blond, Teutonic. Better-looking than Lavinia by far, in a smashing blue gown — and yet, well, those eyes. How piercingly empty they were. How possibly cruel. Brunhilde was the kind of woman, Netta felt sure, who would run over your dog with her carriage if it meant avoiding a puddle in the road.
Beautiful, well-bred, with money enough to bring to the marriage: nowadays they'd call Brunhilde a trophy wife. But as far as Netta could make out, the lady in the blue gown had launched a line of unhappy marriages that continued to this day.
It's like a curse, Netta thought, shaking her head before the proud, imperious woman who hung above her in a gilded frame. And this is the witch who's cast the spell.
She shrugged off the unpleasant sensation and went on her way to the kitchen, which was humming like a medieval cooking room before a visit from the local king and queen. Netta looked around with satisfaction; the caterer and her two assistants seemed to have matters well in hand. Liz Coppersmith seemed to think so, anyway: she spooned into one of the salads, closed her eyes for the tasting, put the spoon down, and gave the caterer a high-five.
Time After Time Page 17
