Four
It didn’t take me long to find the town of Eastbrook itself, but locating Meadowbrook was something else again. If Dr. Hart hadn’t given such precise and detailed directions, I might have found myself, Rip-Van-Winklelike, lost in the mountains for twenty years, the roads were so circuitous. But Meadowbrook’s stone pillars were right where she’d said they’d be, five miles up the mountain road, two miles beyond the Summit Inn, just after an abandoned one-room schoolhouse, a quarter of a mile down a winding, unpaved lane, and past a couple of horses grazing in a stony field.
It was an early-April Tuesday, and I had somehow miraculously cleared an entire afternoon to visit Serena Northbury’s great-granddaughter at Meadowbrook, the Northbury ancestral home in the Massachusetts hills. As I topped a ridge and caught my first glimpse of the house, I gasped; the car slowed, as if of its own volition, and I brought it to a stop. Meadowbrook was a gem. A small estate complete with a tenant house, and barns, set in a hillside clearing. The main house was a rambling three-story nineteenth-century rustic “cottage,” shingled in brown-stained cedar splints, and wide fieldstone steps led to a white-pillared wraparound veranda overlooking a vista of wooded mountainsides, reddish now in the early spring sun. Cleared pastures, demarcated by low stone walls, extended as far as I could see.
When I pulled the Jetta up under a porte cochere, next to a shiny black Chevy Suburban and a dusty maroon Lincoln with New York M.D. plates, a bulky gray-haired man came down the porch steps. He introduced himself as Willis Thorpe, Dr. Hart’s longtime medical partner and current houseguest, and led me through a wide hallway into a large double parlor furnished in late Victorian style.
Edith Hart greeted me from a mission-style armchair upholstered in dark red chintz. “Forgive me for not rising, Professor Pelletier,” she said, “but standing up is simply too much of a chore these days. I hope you had no trouble finding us.” Dr. Hart’s tone was polite but formal. From her expression of appraisal, I could tell she didn’t quite know what to make of me; Mrs. Northbury’s great-granddaughter was clearly not altogether enthusiastic about this unknown scholar’s sudden interest in her ancestor’s work.
“Your directions were perfect, Dr. Hart. And this place is wonderful.” Although she appeared to be somewhere in her eighties and seemed frail, Edith Hart was still a beautiful woman. White hair clipped modishly short framed a high-cheeked, square-jawed face. Her damask-rose sweater, worn with pleated gray wool slacks, accentuated deep-set gray eyes and dark brows. She looked serious and intelligent, and I liked her instinctively. But, as I said, she didn’t seem at all certain about me.
As she’d informed me on the phone, Dr. Hart was a retired physician who had spent her long career in Manhattan, working at inner-city hospitals and clinics. Now, ill with diabetes, she had given up her New York apartment and lived year-round at Meadowbrook, the Northbury family home in the Massachusetts hills, with the assistance, she told me, of a “young man, a family connection.”
“Meadowbrook was built by my great-grandmother,” she’d said. “I’m not certain there’s a great deal I can tell you about her, but you’ll probably enjoy seeing the house. It’s really quite unusual. I don’t get around much, but Will could give you a tour before you leave.”
Dr. Thorpe, only a few years younger, but far more robust than Dr. Hart, got me settled on a love seat, and once Edith Hart was satisfied I was comfortable, she turned to her friend. “Will, do make certain the professor gets some tea.” Dr. Hart was of the generation—and class—that takes the tea ritual seriously, and in a recessed window nook of the sunny, cherry-paneled room, a lace-covered table was elegantly set with a silver tea service and rose-patterned china. I was intimidated. The last time I’d handled bone china was at a funky little tearoom in Greenwich Village where the pots came in the shape of bulldogs and thatched cottages, and afternoon tea was served with more than a spoonful of parody. But for this lady the ritual was purposeful; any awkwardness between strangers was to be smoothed away in the time-hallowed courtesies of the tea table.
As I sipped the strong brew and gazed around the room at the marble mantel, glass-fronted bookcases, floral still lifes, and quaint half-keyboard piano, a tall man with frizzy blond hair carried in a silver tray holding a plate of scones and a small cut-glass bowl of strawberry jam. He set them precisely in the center of the small table. This, I thought, must be the “family connection” who takes care of Dr. Hart.
“Ah, Gerry,” Edith said, “let me introduce you to Professor Pelletier, who is interested in ah … my … illustrious ancestor Mrs. Northbury. Professor Pelletier, this is Gerry Novak. Gerry makes it possible for me to live here.”
The frizzy-haired man nodded in my direction, but didn’t make eye contact. He fussed with the table arrangement, moving spoons and realigning damask napkins. Then, without speaking to anyone, he left the room.
Edith Hart sighed and glanced over at Dr. Thorpe. He shrugged. When she turned to me, her smile seemed forced. Placing her cup on a mahogany side table, she sat back in her large chair. For a moment I feared she was going to say, “Good help is so hard to find these days.” But, of course, she didn’t. Rather, she regarded me again with cool appraisal.
“Professor Pelletier, I’ll be frank with you. I’m astounded that a literary scholar—especially one from Enfield College—would show any interest at all in my great-grandmother. From what I understand, everyone thinks Mrs. Northbury’s books are trash.”
“Please call me Karen, Dr. Hart. And I love Mrs. Northbury’s novels.”
“Can you tell me why?” This was a woman who was used to asking questions and who expected to get reasoned answers.
It was the first time I’d been forced to think seriously about my eccentric interest in this much-maligned writer, and I took a minute or two to respond. Edith was a patient woman. She lifted her cup, sipped her tea, waited.
Finally I ventured, “She’s the only novelist I know from that era who writes about the kind of courage it takes to get through life day by day. No white whales. No uncharted forests. No scarlet letters. No great heroics at all. Just food and drink and perseverance. And ordinary kindness. And ordinary love.” A totally banal literary exegesis. If anyone in the English Department at Enfield heard it, I’d be drummed out of the profession, offered a final drag on a cigarette, blindfolded, and stood up against a wall.
But Edith was smiling. “Ordinary love. I like that. But nowadays ordinary love doesn’t seem to suffice. Everyone is looking for extraordinary love, aren’t they?” She laughed. “I know I always have been.”
I could feel my eyes widen. Extraordinary love? But this woman was old.
Willis Thorpe was watching his friend. “But surely ordinary love isn’t ordinary, at all,” he said, quietly. “Ordinary love is extraordinary.” Could I be imagining the wistful expression in his gray eyes?
Edith laughed again. “Maybe so. But I’ve always had more of an affinity for the Cathy-and-Heathcliff kind of love—dark, passionate, forbidden.”
“And dangerous,” added Dr. Thorpe. Perhaps age had etched something resembling a frown into the permanent lines of his face. Certainly experience had; Willis Thorpe had the weary eyes of a man who had seen more than his share of human pain and folly.
“Maybe.” Dr. Hart’s response was quick. “And, God knows, in my work I’ve seen enough of the danger. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Emergency Room isn’t the court of last resort for that kind of love. But, nonetheless, it’s always appealed to me.” She looked directly at Thorpe. “As you well know,” she said.
I felt uncomfortable, as if I were eavesdropping on a very old, very complicated conversation.
Then Edith seemed to recall my presence. “I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” she said, turning to me and breaking the mood. “But if an eightysomething woman can’t talk honestly about love and sex, I don’t know who can.” She gazed at me a moment, her head tilted. “And besides, I have a strong feeling you understand what I�
��m talking about.”
I smiled, without committing myself. Maybe I didn’t; maybe I did.
Dr. Hart took the small plate Dr. Thorpe handed her. He had given her buttered dark bread, I noticed, rather than scones. Willis Thorpe was very careful of his old friend’s health.
“But you didn’t come here to talk about love, Professor Pelletier—Karen,” Dr. Hart continued. “What is it, exactly, you want to know about Mrs. Northbury?”
Mrs. Northbury, I thought. She calls her great-grandmother Mrs. Northbury. Delightfully old-fashioned for a woman who seems so comfortable talking about sex.
As Edith nibbled on a triangle of bread, and Willis Thorpe roamed restlessly around the room, I told them about my plans to write a biography of Serena Northbury. “Not a great deal is known about her life, at least by scholars,” I concluded. “So anything you can tell me, any papers you might have, would be useful. And her library. Do you have any other books that belonged to her besides the Jane Eyre?”
“Books and papers, eh?” She thought for a moment. “When I inherited this place, I donated the family papers to Enfield College. But that was mostly documents: deeds, birth certificates, wedding certificates, account books, a few letters. I thought those would be of historical interest because we’re such an old family, and one that was fairly influential locally.”
“Really? Beyond Mrs. Northbury?”
“Oh, yes. The Pinkworth family was—”
“Pinkworth?”
“Didn’t you know? Mrs. Northbury’s father, Edmund Pinkworth—the Reverend Edmund Pinkworth—was a cleric of some note in his day. I gave a book of his sermons to the college, as well as some manuscript sermons.…”
“Really?” This place must be a treasure trove.
“Mrs. Northbury’s book money built this house; it wasn’t the Pinkworth ancestral home. But the Pinkworth family papers were stored here. My great-grandmother inherited them, and then, eventually, I did. And since the Reverend Eddie was—”
I laughed. “The Reverend Eddie?”
If I hadn’t already taken to Edith Hart, her responding grin would have endeared her to me instantly. “That’s what my sister and I called him when we were girls. We hated him. The one portrait we had was ghastly; the poor man looked like an ogre. It sat right there on the mantel,” she gestured to the ornate fireplace, “and scowled down at us as if he had known a hundred years in advance just exactly what naughty little children we were fated to be. As soon as I decently could after my father died, I bundled it up with the family documents and hustled them all off to Enfield. The librarians seemed grateful; he was, after all, a founder of the college.”
“He was?” This, too, was news to me. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d said I knew very little about Serena Northbury’s life.
I wished I could pull out a notebook and jot all this information down, but the atmosphere didn’t seem conducive. This was a friendly conversation, not a formal interview. Maybe that could come later, after I was certain I’d won Edith’s confidence.
“Oh, yes. Quite a mover and shaker in his time, was the Reverend Eddie. And an orthodox education for young Christian men in these parlous days,” her tone was mocking, “was dear to his heart. I remember my grandmother—Mrs. Northbury’s middle daughter, Josie, was my grandmother—saying that her mother had never forgiven the good reverend for refusing to send her to school. Instead, Pinkworth poured all his energies—and money—into assuring a proper education for the young men of New England, although he had no sons himself. Reverend Eddie claimed college would unsex a woman, my grandmother said.”
“Unsex her?” I laughed.
“Yes. When I was little, I tried to figure out what that meant. If she learned Latin, would her breasts drop off? Would she sprout whiskers if she memorized the botanical phyla? Those were pretty bizarre images for a young girl. Come to think of it, that may be what drove me into medical studies.” She grinned. “Trying to reassure myself that, even if I did use my brain, my breasts would remain firmly attached.”
Over by the piano, where he had arrested his prowling to listen, Willis Thorpe snorted. “You never told me that story, Edie.” He looked enchanted. As if, I thought, this woman would never cease to surprise him.
“Well, why would I?” She glanced over at him, laughing. “I’m certain you had far more humanitarian motives for becoming a physician.”
“Of course I did.” His voice deepened an octave in self-derision. “They probably had to do with how splendid I would look in a white coat and stethoscope.” He was still chortling as he began to sort through the framed photographs displayed on the piano’s top. Then he zeroed in on a picture in a red frame and carried it over to the Tiffany floor lamp. He gazed at it for a long time before returning it to the piano. When he glanced over at his old friend, as if to make some comment, his expression immediately became concerned. I looked at her more closely. Edith appeared exhausted. Pouring a fresh cup of tea, Dr. Thorpe sat next to her and urged her to drink it. For the first time I realized how very ill this woman was. Time for me to make my exit. I rose and thanked her for her hospitality.
“May I come back when you’re feeling better, Dr. Hart? To talk to you some more about your great-grandmother? I’ve learned so much today, but I’m sure there’s a great deal more you can tell me.”
“Certainly, Karen. I’ve enjoyed talking to you. And you haven’t seen the house yet. Could we make that tour another day? This damn disease gets to me every once in a while, and I don’t think I can spare Will right now.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling a pang of guilt about having worn her out.
“And there’s a great deal of family memorabilia in the attics—junk, mostly, I imagine. I’ve been meaning to go through it before … well … soon. I’ll ask Gerry to start bringing things down. There’s at least one box of papers that belonged to Mrs. Northbury, but when I packed up the Pinkworth things, I didn’t think Enfield College would be interested in her. I couldn’t bring myself to throw her stuff out, though. And I seem to recall seeing a bundle of papers that might be some kind of a manuscript. But that was a long time ago; God knows where it’s all gotten to by now. I’ll call you when—and if—Gerry finds anything of interest.”
“Terrific! I mean, ah—that would be very useful. Thank you. Thank you so much.” On my way out of the room, I passed the piano, and a framed black-and-white snapshot in a distinctive red frame caught my eye. I picked it up; I was fairly certain this was the photograph Willis Thorpe had singled out earlier. The shot was of a laughing, dark-haired Edith Hart. Cigarette in hand, wearing a short, wide-shouldered dress, with ornamental braid around the square-cut neck, she was young, beautiful, and sexy. And there was a glamour about her that belonged to a pre-feminist era—the cigarette, the dark lipstick, the frank sensuality. I felt a strong pang of politically incorrect envy.
“Beautiful,” I murmured, indicating the photo in its bright red frame.
“Yes,” she replied, with an enigmatic smile. Fifty years later, this woman’s beauty still gave her private satisfaction.
Then, thinking about photographs, I remembered the picture in the old copy of Jane Eyre. “Dr. Hart—”
“Do call me Edith.” It seemed that she’d made up her mind to trust me.
“Edith.” I reached into my shoulder bag and retrieved the baby’s photograph. “Do you know who this is? I found it in the Brontë that belonged to your great-grandmother.”
She took the picture, held it close to her eyes. Of course, I thought. Diabetes. She probably has problems with her vision. She lowered the photo, then shook her head. “I’ve never seen this before.” Then she turned it over. Her eyes widened; for a brief moment she appeared stunned. Then her face shut down, her expression became neutral. “Carrie? Nobody in the family by that name. And 1861? I seem to remember that Mrs. Northbury was living in New York then. Maybe it was the child of a friend. Who knows, she may have lent the book out and someone used the photo for a bookmark
, then forgot it. It could be anyone. Sorry I can’t be of more help.” She was speaking just a little too rapidly. Suddenly she was pale and sweaty, drained of energy. What’s this all about? I wondered. Again, I remembered the diabetes. Maybe she was going into insulin shock. I felt another guilty pang.
“Interesting picture, though,” Edith said, wearily. “May I keep it? Since it was in a family book?”
“It’s yours,” I replied. But I felt a sense of loss: I’d become fond of the beautiful child. Edith looked closely at little Carrie’s picture once again, and then, as she leaned her head back against the pillow Willis had provided for her, she tucked the photo between her chair’s cushion and its frame—for safekeeping, I assumed.
As I left Meadowbrook, the late-afternoon sun cast long shadows on the lawn and on the immaculate shrubbery. I turned right at the stone pillars and began the trek back down the mountain. When I’d gone a half mile or so, a shiny black Chevy Suburban whizzed past me, going at least sixty miles an hour on the twisting dirt road, and forcing my little Jetta as far over to the right as the mountainous terrain would allow. I wasn’t certain, but I thought the light-haired man behind the wheel was probably Gerry Novak, Edith Hart’s taciturn “family connection.”
Five
“‘And now, reader,’” I read aloud to my American literature class, a week after my visit to Meadowbrook, “‘I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I would gladly forget if I could. The remembrance fills me with sorrow and shame. It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it may.’” I looked up from my copy of Harriet Jacobs’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl at the sober faces of my students. “Now, what we have here,” I said, “is a tale of attempted rape and illicit sex told by a black woman to a white audience, an audience Harriet Jacobs is well aware reveres sexual chastity above any other feminine quality. This is a difficult story for her to tell, because of the personal humiliation involved, and also because there are no narrative conventions available in which to tell it. Sexual harassment and sexual liaisons were not the stuff of polite literature. Listen to her language here: ‘It pains me to tell you of it,’ she says, ‘but I have promised to tell the truth—’”
The Northbury Papers Page 4
