Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  He frowned, and Marjorie laughed at his expression. “Very well. I’ll get it and come straight to your room.”

  Marjorie retrieved the carrying case and went to Samuel’s room, where he waited eagerly. The desk was completely covered with open books, so she placed the case on the bed. She unscrewed the lid carefully and turned it over, and the map fell into her hands. The paper crinkled faintly as she spread it over the covers.

  Samuel’s breath was hot on her arm. He drank in the map like a sponge sucking up water. Still a little boy at heart, he was clearly ready for his adventures in the wide world. “This is amazing,” he breathed.

  Marjorie stared at her cousin, a slow smile spreading across her lips. He wasn’t a child anymore, that was plain to see.

  “What are you staring at me like that for, cousin?” Samuel asked, not glancing up from the map.

  “Are you going to tell me about your friend?” she ventured.

  His ears turning pink, Samuel moved in closer to the map like he was trying to read something and couldn’t quite make it out. His expression spoke volumes.

  “Why, you’re in love!” Marjorie exclaimed, delighted. “Well, are you going to tell me about him or make me guess?”

  “Cousin!” A mask of horror clouded Samuel’s face.

  Marjorie gave him a look. “Oh, don’t be such a goose, Sam.” She turned to the map as well, and she felt him staring at her.

  “How did you—? Claude and me, we—”

  “I’ve got ears, Sam,” she said. “And eyes. You just confirmed it.” She smiled at him, triumphant. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You promise?”

  Marjorie looked at him, completely serious. “I promise, Sam.”

  Samuel gazed down at his feet. “I don’t believe Father would understand.”

  “You never know,” Marjorie said. “He might surprise you.”

  They turned back to the map together, although there was still a tense air in the room. “Does 1:28 mean anything to you?” Marjorie asked. She pointed at the small figures.

  Samuel thought for a long moment, but he shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “Drat. Well, according to my father, somehow Saint Catherine’s monastery figures into this scene. I looked it up: it was built to commemorate Catherine of Alexandria, a Christian killed for her beliefs by Emperor Maxentius in 305 AD. Some believe the angels took her body to Mount Sinai, where in the sixth-century Emperor Justinian ordered a monastery built in her name. What?”

  He stared at her, his expression knowing and full of mischief.

  “Come on. What is it?” she demanded.

  “I think you’re going to believe in the Tree of Life before you know it,” he said.

  “Ha, ha,” she responded. “Look, it’s just about seven o’clock. I suppose we’d better trudge down like good little soldiers.”

  “What? Oh, yes,” Sam said. He seemed lost in the map again. “You go ahead. I’ll be right down.”

  Marjorie nodded and gently closed the door behind her as she left.

  In the hall waited a young man dressed in a butler’s fashion. He had dark hair, parted at the side. He looked like a young John Gilbert. Obviously he was lingering, waiting for Samuel, Marjorie guessed. She nodded to him and made her way toward her room to get dressed for dinner. She had a feeling Samuel was going to be late.

  ***

  Marjorie took her seat on the far side of the room and gave a nod to Richard as he pushed her chair in behind her before taking his seat next to Mary. Uncle Charlie and Aunt Ethel sat at the heads of the table. They still dressed for dinner—evening gowns and suits. Large doors swung wide to the patio, and a breeze pushed its way in from outside. A faint sweet smell of the flower gardens and the Hudson River lingered. From this vantage point, the trees on the horizon burned like fire in the golden hour before sunset.

  A white table cloth lay over the long wooden table, and in the very center a large bouquet of white lilies spilled over a silver vase. Two candelabras sat at the ends of the table, their tall white candles casting golden light upon the faces of the family.

  Before them, fine china lined with tiny painted flowers awaited piles of food—the servers had already set out platters covered with silver domes, which were lined along the sides of the room on metal carts. Marjorie saw herself reflected back, her appearance convex and distorted. Before her rested two goblets, one filled with cool water and the other with some sort of lemon fizz. Marjorie knew Aunt Ethel took Prohibition seriously. She wouldn’t stand for a drop of alcohol in the house.

  Marjorie observed her aunt now as she silently raged.

  Indeed, Samuel was late for dinner. His empty chair, standing silent, made a lot of noise.

  “I suppose we should start,” Uncle Charlie said finally.

  Aunt Ethel heaved a sigh. “You’re right. Samuel will just have to have his cold.”

  Everyone else, perfectly polite, began moving. The servers held large platters as tenderly as they would their own children. They served with precision, reaching over the diners without spilling a drop.

  They feasted on roast chicken covered in a white cream mushroom sauce. Also on her plate were French potatoes, steamed broccoli, and fresh rolls. Marjorie cut the chicken delicately with a fork and knife and brought it to her mouth. It tasted of thyme and onions and a hint of pepper.

  Everyone remained silent and kept looking at Samuel’s empty chair. The sound of the ticking grandfather clock on one side of the room was deafening. Finally, Aunt Ethel stood in one swift motion, her lips pursed and her voice brushed by impatience. “I’ll go up and see what he’s doing.”

  Uncle Charlie put his water goblet down. “He’s just excited about the trip. Don’t worry.”

  “He’ll miss his chance to spend time with his family,” Aunt Ethel argued.

  Uncle Charlie waved his hand in a noncommittal gesture.

  Richard took this opportunity to cut in. “Respectfully, I agree with Mother,” he said. “Isn’t it enough to go off for months to the Near East already with things as they are at home?”

  “Richard—” Mary began, trying to smooth things over.

  “Mary,” Uncle Charlie cut through, “let him speak. I’d like to hear what he thinks.”

  Richard swallowed, placing his glass down. “Father, there are so many things that need attention here. As a businessman, I don’t understand how the family could spend a small fortune—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Uncle Charlie said. “Maybe when you’re a father, you will.” The word maybe lingered in the air long after he said it.

  Silence fell over the table. Everyone seemed to be grappling with the things they would like to say and the things they might regret saying.

  “Well, I’m going up,” Aunt Ethel said. She put her napkin down on the table next to her barely touched dinner plate and then carefully made her way out of the room. As she walked away her jewelry glittered in the light, now growing dark as the sun continued its descent.

  A lovely trifle emerged from the kitchen moments later. It had layers of whipped cream, angel cake, and fruit. It smelled of strawberries, freshly picked from a nearby farm. The servers dished small portions, but no one felt like eating.

  Among the servers, Marjorie recognized the young man who had been in the hall earlier—Claude. He avoided looking at her. To the untrained eye, he seemed presentable enough. But Marjorie, an expert in studying details, noticed he looked slightly disheveled. His hair had been restyled, and his clothing was slightly creased, as though it had been sitting in a pile on the floor.

  “I’m tired,” Mary said. She stood slowly, off-balance. “I think I’m going to bed.”

  “I’ll walk you up,” Marjorie offered. “It’s been a long travel day and I could do with an early night too.”

  She crossed over and linked arms with her cousin, and together they left Uncle Charlie and Richard staring gloomily at one another a
cross the table. Marjorie couldn’t help but wonder if they would have it out by themselves.

  “Are you alright?” Mary asked.

  “Me?” Marjorie asked. “What about you?”

  “Oh, it’s an argument they keep coming back to,” Mary said. Her voice sounded tired—quiet and strained. Going up the stairs was difficult for her, and she took a few seconds’ break. Around them, portraits of Vale family ancestors peered from behind serious, painted expressions. As a girl, these portraits had intimidated Marjorie. But then she realized all these grim faces were people like anyone else, and now she viewed them with affection.

  After a moment, Mary caught her breath and continued up. “Richard thinks they’re spending too much money on this Tree business. He wants the family to invest in more practical things.”

  “What do you think?”

  Mary shrugged and let out a long sigh. “My father and Sam so want to believe in it. I don’t want to be the one to douse their hopes.”

  They made it to the top of the stairs, and Mary smiled. “Thank you. I’m alright. You shouldn’t get involved in this drama, Marjorie. You have more to worry about—like finding out what happened to your father.”

  Marjorie’s expression tightened into a bemused Mona Lisa smile. “I plan to do exactly that, Mary.”

  Samuel’s door at the end of the hall opened, and Aunt Ethel stumbled out.

  Mary called playfully down the hall, “Is he sorry he missed dinner, Mother?”

  Without seeming to have heard, Aunt Ethel hurried down the hall. Her face shuffled between expressions—from confused to hurried. Finally, it settled on panic. She turned ashen white, and she looked positively spooked.

  “What’s wrong, Aunt?” Marjorie asked, fear cutting through her. She’d never seen her aunt this way.

  As if seeing them for the first time, Aunt Ethel reached out and grabbed Marjorie. Her grip was tight, her fingers icy. Likely without Marjorie standing there she would have toppled over. Finally, her eyes found her niece’s. They were wide, like a frightened horse. “He’s dead!” she cried.

  Chapter Seven

  Dead.

  Marjorie’s heart squeezed in her chest. No!

  In her grief, Aunt Ethel pulled away and broke down sobbing. Mary rushed to comfort her, although Marjorie could see that she was shaking herself. Before Marjorie could think, she found herself opening the door to Samuel’s room.

  Inside, Samuel’s body lay slumped on the floor. It appeared that he had fallen forward and had hit his head on the walnut bedpost. Blood dripped from a gash across his forehead. He was half dressed for dinner, his jacket still on the bed and his shoes set on the floor.

  Marjorie stumbled in, falling to her knees next to him. From the hallway, she could hear Aunt Ethel’s heavy sobbing, her gasps for air. But Marjorie knew she needed to focus. She reach out a hand and tried to find Samuel’s carotid artery. His skin was still warm, and there was a faint pulse. In fact, his face was flushed. His shallow exhales brushed against Marjorie’s face.

  “He’s not dead!”

  By this time, Uncle Charlie and Richard had heard the commotion and had joined Aunt Ethel and Mary in the hallway. At Marjorie’s announcement, together the two of them rushed in and lifted Samuel into his bed. Then Uncle Charlie went to call the family doctor. He arrived not a half hour later, his medical bag in hand.

  Dr. Jonathan MacGreggor had faithfully served the Vale family for years. Marjorie remembered him from when she was a child, after she had suffered a particularly nasty fall from one of the trees lining the river. He seemed old even back then, with a bushy gray mustache. A man of very few words if they weren’t medicinal, Dr. MacGreggor always got right to work.

  Still unconscious, Samuel was overshadowed by mountains of pillows that propped up his upper body. At least the nasty gash has stopped bleeding, Marjorie mused with a grateful sigh. A purple bruise had formed beneath Samuel’s left eye. Despite this, he looked like he was slumbering. It felt very surreal.

  Dr. MacGreggor placed his leather Gladstone bag on the end of the bed and unhooked the top. A series of steel surgical equipment peaked out, causing Aunt Ethel to give a little heave of concern.

  Without looking up, Dr. MacGreggor’s gravelly voice said, “I think it best if the family were to have something to drink.” He looked up over his glasses at Uncle Charlie, who stood on the other side of the bed, and cleared his throat.

  “Quite right,” Uncle Charlie said, catching the doctor’s meaning. “Ethel darling, would you please arrange to have some tea brewed?”

  Aunt Ethel was in no condition to do this, but with Richard and Mary’s help, everyone went to haunt the sitting room. On the way out, Marjorie spotted Claude lingering at the door. He looked distraught, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. No one else noticed him.

  Marjorie narrowed her eyes, considering. She knew him to be the last person to see Samuel before the accident. If it is an accident.

  She didn’t know why she had that thought, but it popped into her head. She shook her head, clearing it. After all, accidents could happen to anyone, anywhere. But the details of her father’s death, an accident, played over and over again. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it would help to know what Claude knew.

  She let the rest of the family go before her, and then lingered at the top of the stairs. Once out of earshot, she took her chance. “Claude, is it?” she said, treading carefully.

  His eyes snapped to her, and she noticed they were bloodshot. “You’re the cousin,” he said quickly. His accent had a Southern edge to it—perhaps somewhere near North Carolina?

  “Yes, I am,” she replied. Her voice sounded high-pitched and nasally. She plowed through nonetheless. “I understand you may have been one of the last people to see Sam before this.”

  He looked at her, his eyes shining with hurt, anger—hate? “I don’t know what you mean, miss,” he said before turning away from her and walking down the hall toward the stairs. Marjorie hurried after him, keeping up with his quick footfalls.

  “We both know what I mean,” Marjorie continued. She knew sometimes it was best to not beat around the bush too much. “I’m just … well, I’m just looking for any information you might have.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know anything.”

  Marjorie reached out to touch him gently, but he pulled away as though she might bite. “I’m just trying to help,” she said. “I love my cousin.”

  He hesitated, considering. Finally, under his breath almost, he whispered, “I was only there for a few minutes. Maybe ten. When I left, he was dressing for dinner.”

  Ten minutes, considered Marjorie. I was still in my room then.

  Claude studied his shoes. He seemed unsure, like he thought maybe he shouldn’t have told her anything.

  “Thank you,” Marjorie said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  By the time Marjorie reached the sitting room, Uncle Charlie was pouring everyone a small glass of scotch. Marjorie had no idea where he had hidden it. Even Aunt Ethel took one without fuss. Marjorie held the crystal whiskey glass in her hand and studied its contents. The gold liquid within smelled strongly of smoke and peat. She took a sip absently and placed it down on the table. Long fingers of spirit made their way down around the sides of the glass.

  As Marjorie took a seat, Dr. MacGreggor walked in, and she stood up again. His face appeared grim, and he held his bag in his hands.

  “Well?” Aunt Ethel asked, too drained to rise.

  Dr. MacGreggor cleared his throat. “Mr. Vale has suffered from head trauma,” he said. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a lot modern medicine can do.”

  Aunt Ethel made a choking sound.

  “There’s got to be something, man,” Richard growled. He leaned against the mantel, a cigar in one hand and a drink in the other. His brow knit together in confusion.

  Dr. MacGreggor bristled, rolling his shoulders down. He shot Richard a scowl before turning to Aunt Ethel a
gain. “If there was something I could do, I would already have done it. There is brain damage, but we can’t be sure of the extent. He may wake up within a reasonable amount of time, and he may not.”

  Aunt Ethel’s face crumpled and she started sobbing again. Everyone else remained resolute, quiet and serious. Marjorie leaned back against the chair, letting it support her weight.

  “I’ll return tomorrow, and we can reconsider the options then,” Dr. MacGreggor said.

  Uncle Charlie walked with the good doctor to the front door. When he returned, Marjorie thought he looked like a lost man—neither sure of where he was or where he was going. She felt unmoored herself, and she gripped the chair arm. Might wake up, might not? Oh, Sam!

  ***

  Marjorie couldn’t sleep. Bone tired and still in a bit of shock, all she seemed able to do was lie still in the cavernous four-poster bed and stare at the ceiling. Despite the stillness of the room, her mind spun in circles. Poor Sam, she thought.

  She considered the upcoming trip. With Samuel laid up, was it even wise to go? Did she want to travel to the Near East all by herself without her cousin? If she didn’t go, if she stayed at Gracewood, her father—bless his soul—he would understand, surely?

  She rolled out of bed, too agitated to lie still any longer. She put on her teal silk dressing gown and tied the closure tight around her waist. Opening the window, she leaned out in an attempt to clear her head.

  The stars above shone bright since the moon was dark. It was difficult to see across the lawn—so full of shadows. Light glowed softly from Samuel’s room, which Marjorie could see from the wall perpendicular to her room. His window curtain escaped into the night breeze and swayed to its rhythm.

  She considered her options. Maybe she could send the map to a museum, and they might have someone who could find out more. But it would have to be someone reputable. Could they hire scholars to finish the work? Maybe they’d uncover something along the way that would help her when she was free to continue the search for answers over her father’s death. Or she could wait until Samuel recovered—if he recovered—and they could go together, just as they planned.