Lost Roses

by Martha Hall Kelly

  Julia stepped down from the porch, arms outstretched. “Welcome, New Yorker!”

  How wonderful it was to be embraced by her, all perfume and French silks, to be swept up in the arms that each night on Broadway welcomed throngs of theatergoers with ease. For once in so long, dark thoughts of Henry melted away.

  “How are you today, darling?”

  How good of Julia to add “today,” making it easier somehow.

  “It’s a good day,” I said.

  Julia grabbed my hatbox from me. “We must hurry. We’re planning a splendid dinner tonight with two other guests attending.”

  She led me through the living room, up the front stair, the stained-glass windows there ablaze in yellows and oranges. “I saved the best guest room for you, of course.”

  “I received a letter from Sofya—she said she feared they were in danger. And then no letters at all.”

  “I do hope she’s gotten out, I’ve heard terrible stories.”

  “I’ve met some women, so like Sofya in every way. They had to flee hostilities there and left all their personal effects behind. Mother’s friend at the Immigration Bureau says they need to move them to the Bowery if I can’t place them soon.”

  “Not the Bowery, Eliza.”

  “Many with children. Forced to flee with only the clothes on their backs.”

  “They won’t survive on the Lower East Side.”

  “Might you take a few here?”

  “Of course, darling. Have them come at once.”

  Julia led me along the upstairs hall. “I can’t wait to show you the house, Eliza. We entertain little up here, preferring the comparative solitude of the mountains, but we have a treat for you.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Gareth Hapgood.”

  “Oh.”

  Gareth Hapgood needed no introduction, a household name to anyone at the time who followed Shakespearian theater. I’d never seen him perform but heard he kept a milk cow on his yacht.

  “You’re not happy.”

  “I’m not ready, Julia. Yesterday I forgot Henry was gone. Looked for him—”

  “Gareth is just someone to chat with. He brought a friend who shall remain our mystery guest—all I can tell you is he’s an early riser.”

  Julia famously eschewed morning people, perhaps from her years in theater. For her, breakfast started at the noon hour.

  “I do think you’ll like Gareth, such a dear man. Quelle handsome. He comes from Troy, New York, but don’t worry, he seldom speaks of it.”

  We came to my room and Julia flung open the door. “Voilà.”

  I followed her into a most charming guest room hung with Delft Blue wallpaper. The scent of anthracite, which lingered from the coal fires, lent a pleasant fireworks scent to the room. An enormous canopy bed stood against the far wall, but my favorite part was the wide porch, which I shared with the bedroom next door, accessed from my room by a handsome pair of wide French doors.

  Julia took me by the hand out onto the porch.

  “Oh, the view, Julia.” I took in the long slope of lawn and the sweep of gentle mountains beyond, the upper elevations splashed with tangerine and vermillion. “It’s like being in Switzerland.”

  Birds of all kinds sang in the trees and sailed and dipped in the sky above us. I turned my attention to the room next door, the draperies drawn back, a fire glowing in the fireplace. Which one of Julia’s guests was my neighbor?

  “I do love the fall up here.” Julia linked an arm through mine. “Like my birds?”

  “They’re exquisite.” Tears threatened and I felt for my handkerchief, my constant companion those days.

  “Is the sadness any better, dear?”

  “Some days. It helps to breathe mountain air, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be normal again.”

  “I know you’re still in deep mourning, dear, so don’t hate me for bringing it up, but you might want to start thinking about when you’ll stop wearing your wedding ring. Might help you move on.”

  “So soon?” I clasped my right hand over my left. “It’s all I have left of him.”

  Julia pointed to a brown bird circling above the treetops between the mountains and us. “That’s an osprey, off to catch a fish in the river soon, no doubt. I could watch her all day.”

  I stemmed a wave of envy watching that bird. How good it must be to fly wherever one chose.

  “See how she flies, and after the downward wing stroke, her wings pull up? That’s called the recovery stroke. Isn’t it lovely? That’s all you need, Eliza. Time to take your recovery stroke.”

  Tears flooded my view, turning the trees on the mountain beyond to an orange blur.

  Julia pulled me close and kissed my cheek. “Be patient, my darling. You really will feel better someday.”

  * * *

  —

  JULIA HURRIED OFF AND I dressed for dinner, changing from my traveling dress of black bombazine and crape to another, almost identical. How tired I was of black. Early Christians in the second century wore white in mourning. What misguided soul had turned society toward black?

  I unpacked the room decorations I traveled with. Strung my length of tiny Tibetan prayer flags across the vanity mirror and flipped open the silver travel frame Father had given me so I could keep my loved ones close. Henry, Father, Mother, Caroline, Sofya, and little Max.

  At least I wouldn’t need the veil at dinner. I opened my locket and pressed my lips to Henry’s picture. I caught my reflection in the window, lit by the fire, my skin so white against the black.

  A widow.

  The word pulled on me like a brick roped around my neck.

  I stood taller, brushed lint from my skirt, and wrapped my Orenburg shawl about my shoulders. At least I was making headway placing the Russian women.

  I stepped down the stairs and through the dining room, past Julia’s massive birch Adirondack table set for five. In the center sat a silver bowl filled with autumn branches, the bowl large enough to bathe a baby. The table wore Julia’s best silver brought up from their mansion at 377 Riverside Drive in Manhattan.

  I followed voices out onto Julia’s newly built, columned veranda, which ran along the front of the house to exploit the view. I stopped in the doorway and took in the group as Julia struck a theatrical pose and E.H. helped himself and a blond gentleman to drinks at a mirrored bar.

  E.H. turned to me. “Oh, Eliza, you’re here. Do come out. May I present Gareth Hapgood, direct from the stage in Philadelphia?”

  Gareth stepped toward me at the doorway, chin held high, a frowsy, yellow chrysanthemum at his lapel. “Enchanté, Eliza,” he said with a deep bow.

  I extended my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Hapgood.”

  He took my hand and kissed it. “May I call you Eliza?”

  Had he marinated himself in cologne?

  “Julia’s been telling us about your impressive family. To think you are descended from those fine Woolsey women.”

  “That’s enough, Gareth,” Julia said, handing him a glass of Moët.

  “My deepest condolences about your husband. I myself have a lung condition. My doctor says the only form of exercise I may take is to be tossed gently in a blanket.”

  Gareth was clearly Julia’s pick to replace Henry, but he was not my sort of man at all. While he no doubt cut a masculine enough figure onstage in his skirt of leather strips and plumed helmet, he couldn’t hold a Roman scepter to my Henry.

  Julia linked her arm in mine. “Let Eliza breathe a bit.”

  I felt a gaze upon me and turned.

  “And please meet our mystery guest, dear Mr. Merrill. Gareth is his client.”

  Merrill took a step toward me, brow creased, amber liquid in his crystal tumbler. “Eliza. I had no idea you’d be here.”

  Merrill? I pulled at the collar of my dress. Coul
d this dinner get any more uncomfortable? Perhaps the kaiser himself would like to join us?

  “How nice to see you, Merrill.”

  Gareth stepped between us. “You two have met?” Something in his voice suggested jealousy.

  Julia held my hand. “I thought it would be nice for you, dear; you and Merrill being old friends. You can never have too many handsome men at a dinner.”

  I looked to Julia. Merrill? And then instantly forgave her for inviting him. I’d never told her my objections.

  I turned to Gareth. “My late husband, Henry, and Merrill were friends at St. Paul’s.”

  Merrill sipped his drink, the ice cubes clacking. “I’ve known Eliza for quite some time.”

  Julia and I led the way to the dining room, a fire lit in the fireplace there, and I considered ways of falling and breaking an arm.

  We took our seats.

  “Not to brag, but I can identify any spice in a soup,” Gareth said. “I’ve been educating my palate, as did the ancients. Did you know Roman epicures cultivated their tastes so perfectly they could tell me where in a river a fish was caught?”

  “Oh, really?” I asked. Is there anything more tedious than suffering a gourmand of brandy and plovers’ eggs?

  “We’ll have your favorite mincemeat pie, Gareth,” Julia said.

  Gareth smoothed his napkin onto his lap. “Europe laughs at our pies, you know.”

  “Europeans can be insensitive to others’ feelings sometimes,” I said.

  Merrill finished his drink. “And you are sensitive to the feelings of others, Eliza? Some might say not.”

  That was all I needed: Merrill dredging old lakes in front of others.

  I turned to Julia. “You have the most idyllic spot out here, darling.”

  “I much prefer the bustle of the city,” Gareth said. “Have you been to Troy, New York, Eliza?”

  “This is the perfect country retreat,” Merrill said. “No need to board a ship.”

  Of course, he still hated to travel.

  “Enjoy it,” Julia said. “If there’s a war, they’ll call you young men up.”

  I sprinkled a pinch of salt on my soup. “Only a coward would wait to be called up. Good men enlist.”

  Gareth waved his spoon toward Merrill. “Merrill’s new lady friend would most certainly not encourage him to enlist.”

  “Who’s that?” E.H. asked.

  Gareth touched his napkin to his lips. “Only the Anna Gabler.”

  “I know Anna,” Julia said. “She’s fresh off her success at the German Bazaar. Raised an obscene amount of money for German war relief.”

  “Every German in New York came out,” Gareth said. “Opening night line was halfway around Madison Square Garden.”

  “I hear the shooting gallery was especially popular,” I said. “Call me old-fashioned, but German Americans shooting effigies of French and Russian soldiers seems, well, unkind.”

  “Anna who?” asked E.H.

  Gareth glanced at Merrill. “Gabler. A handsome woman of German extraction who has captured half of New York’s bachelors in her thrall.”

  Julia leaned toward me and whispered, “As does the Indian cobra.”

  “Gareth, can you speak of nothing else?” Merrill asked.

  Julia passed the breadbasket. “Beware the fortune hunter, Mr. Merrill. Women can be charmed by the silver music of the almighty dollar.”

  “No worry there,” Gareth said with a little smile. “Her father owns Gabler Rubber. They’re already in at the Meadow Club. Mr. Gabler is diversifying into oil and wants to bring Merrill on to his board, for his expertise in energy stocks.”

  Merrill tossed his napkin on the table.

  “Oh, be a sport, Mr. Merrill,” Julia said. “You mustn’t deny us our fun.”

  Gareth leaned in, the spikes of his chrysanthemum almost grazing his soup. “Especially when there is sensational news to impart.”

  Merrill shifted in his chair. “Gareth—”

  “Do spare us the suspense,” Julia said.

  “Well, as of yesterday evening, Mr. Merrill here is…” Gareth paused, lips pressed together.

  “Gareth—” Julia said.

  “…officially engaged to Miss Anna Gabler.”

  “How wonderful,” E.H. said and raised a glass.

  “Is it?” Julia said under her breath to me.

  Gareth drank to the good news and set down the glass. “The two plan to honeymoon on safari. At war’s end, of course. Miss Gabler is quite a shot.”

  Though I’d never met her, a picture of Anna Gabler floated up in front of me, of her grinning, with one booted foot atop a dazed water buffalo. Was that a stab of jealousy, due to someone else planning a trip? We would all be free to travel once the war ended. No, it was more a vague sadness, for tears pricked at my eyes. Though I had no romantic interest in Merrill, perhaps I’d hoped he would pine for me indefinitely?

  I held up my glass. “Here’s to Merrill and Anna,” I said with the brightest smile I could drum up, head high, careful not to let one tear breech those walls.

  * * *

  —

  WE ALL RETIRED EARLY and I breathed a sigh upon closing the door to my room. Had Henry’s death made me an old crab, unable to appreciate the kindness of a new acquaintance?

  I left my dress and shawl on the chaise longue and slipped into my nightgown, which Julia’s maid had laid out. The wind howled and rattled the windows so I slid the desk chair to the French doors and buttressed them closed. I turned down the kerosene lamp and slid between the duvet-topped cool sheets, the feather bed pillowing up, all fifty pounds of goose down surrounding me with warmth.

  I listened to my neighbor making the usual bedtime noises, knocking about. It was Merrill, for I’d seen him enter his room when we all retired, no doubt fixing another drink. How irritating his behavior had been, bringing personal issues to the table.

  Rain pelted the French doors as I fell off to sleep and reexamined the evening. While Gareth had displayed every kindness, Merrill remained aloof and focused on keeping his and E.H.’s brandy snifters filled. We could never be on friendly terms. He clearly harbored old grudges and how could I ever forgive him for running Henry to death? The more I considered the pair, he was a perfect match for a rich social climber like—

  All at once a great crash came from the direction of the porch and I sat up in my bed, heart thumping. A cold gust had slammed the French doors open against the chair I had propped there, smashing out a windowpane. Rain flew into the room, soaking the rug.

  I threw back the covers, ran to the doors, and forced one closed. I started to shut the other, but my old thumb injury barred me from applying enough pressure, and the wind pushed me back, my bare feet picking up shards of glass.

  “My God, get back. What’s wrong with you?” It was Merrill, arrived via our shared porch.

  “I’m fine,” I said, struggling with the door.

  Merrill pushed me aside and closed the second door and stood, wet through, his back to the doors. He wore his white shirt from dinner with his tie undone and loose. The rain had drenched his hair, matting it down across his forehead.

  I felt his eyes on me and remembered I was dressed only in my nightgown.

  “Bring the fire screen,” he said. “We’ll push it up against the doors.”

  I stepped to the fire, picking up more glass shards in my feet as I walked. I grasped the screen in a hurry, knowing my nightgown showed my figure silhouetted against the fire’s glow.

  I handed Merrill the screen and he slid it under the door’s knobs and then stepped to the chaise longue, grabbed my Orenburg shawl, and pushed it at me.

  “Put that on.”

  “I could have handled this myself.”

  Merrill ran his fingers through his hair. “I should go. I’
ll use the hall door.”

  As he headed out I hobbled toward the love seat near the fire, the glass shards stabbing my feet.

  Merrill stopped and turned. “You’ve stepped in glass, for God’s sake. It’s in your hair.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He hurried to the lavatory and returned with a towel and a basin. “Sit down.” He stepped to the desk and threw open the drawers.

  I sat and pulled my wrap tighter around me. “No need to be surly.”

  He returned, holding a sewing needle between thumb and forefinger. “In this country people say thank you.”

  “Thank you, but you could have left me to my own devices.”

  Merrill sat next to me on the love seat, wearing a rather worn look and a day’s growth of beard on his face, both, of course, becoming on him. He lifted my foot upon his lap and examined it with all the concentration of a diamond cutter.

  “Careful,” I said. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “I didn’t see you refusing the champagne.”

  He was right. And reclining there on the love seat, it was making me dizzy.

  “But champagne is less lethal than brandy, certainly,” I said.

  “You live to argue.”

  “You’ve mistaken me for your fiancée.”

  He stopped his work and turned to me. “What’s wrong with you, Eliza? Once, you were the model of kindness. But since Henry—”

  “You really should lower your voice.” What would Julia say finding us here? Gareth would certainly impale himself on his Roman sword.

  “Suddenly, you can’t even be civil. You’re the one that wronged me, remember?”

  How could I tell him I ached every day for the man he ran around the tennis courts so carelessly?

  Merrill set the basin on my lap and went deep with his needle. I clenched my shawl to distract myself from the pain. “Let us just agree to live our lives.”

  The wind picked up, louder still, and whistled through the broken pane of glass, as he dropped each success into the metal basin with a little clink. It felt curiously good, that pain of the slivers sliding out. How serious he looked, checking my face now and then, his dark eyes catching the firelight.