by Pamela Morsi
"I do love you, Mama," Claire assured her, wiping the hair from Pru's damp cheeks. "I do love you. And I know that you've tried."
"I have tried," Pru admitted through her tears. "I hoped, I prayed, and I really thought that maybe . . . maybe after all these years, but—"
She didn't get to finish her thought. The door burst open and George Barkley, dressed smartly and looking distinguished, stood in the threshold.
"The guests are arriving. I think—" He stopped abruptly and stared at the tableau before him. "Oh, for the love of God, Prudence, what are you sniveling about now?"
His words brought on a torrent of sobs. Claire glared at him.
"This is all your fault," she said accusingly.
"No, it's not," Pru said, patting her daughter. "It's not all his fault."
Prudence pulled away from her daughter's embrace and rose to her feet. Determinedly she wiped her teary eyes upon her handkerchief.
"Go on out with the young people, Claire," she said. 'Teddy's setting up croquet in the backyard."
"But, Mama."
"Go on," she insisted. "I need to talk to your father."
Pru's unusually firm tone brooked no argument and Claire didn't try to make one. With one last accusing glare toward the man in the doorway, she made her way out of the kitchen.
Leaving the back door open just a crack, she hurried noisily down the steps. On tiptoes she sneaked back to listen.
"She knows," Prudence said.
"She knows what?"
"Claire knows the circumstances of her birth."
The room was in total silence for a long moment. Claire crouched down upon her knees on the porch and eased the door open slightly so that she could peek in.
Her parents stood still, just as she had left them. Her father, hands on hips, was beside the door. Her mother, leaning heavily upon a ladder-back chair, stood next to the table.
"Who told her?" George asked quietly.
Prudence shook her head. "She figured it out on her own."
George nodded solemnly. "Well, I guess we should have expected that a bright girl like our Claire would learn how to count," he said.
"Don't make light of this, George Barkley!"
"Pru, it's ancient history," he said.
"It's not," she snapped. "We live with it every day."
"You might," he scoffed. "But I certainly do not. It's forgotten."
"Oh no? Then why has this foolish election to this silly post become so important to you? Sublime Kalifa. It sounds ridiculous."
"That has nothing to do with this!" he answered too quickly.
"It most certainly does. You are still trying to get back what respect you think you lost. I'm sorry about that, George. I've said I'm sorry for years now, with everything I've been and done. Well, you are not the only one who lost in this, George. I lost more than you."
"Pru . . ." His word was plaintive.
"I lost something more than my reputation, George Barkley. I lost the chance for a marriage based upon love."
"Oh, don't be silly," he said with an uncomfortable huff. "You know how I feel about you."
"Indeed I do," she said.
Her chin still high and her gait determined, Prudence walked down the hallway to the stairs.
"Where are you going?" George demanded.
'To my room!" she answered, her voice risen in uncharacteristic anger.
In the background the front door knocker sounded loudly. Both of them turned and gazed toward it, but neither moved to answer it.
"I believe I shall lie down and take a nap," she told her husband with purposeful calm.
"A nap!" George was stunned. "Pru? What about the guests?"
She stared at him, not one glimmer of uncertainty in her expression. Her face was red and blotchy and the tears were dry upon her cheeks. She held her head high, regally determined.
"They are your guests, George Barkley," she said with quiet steel in her voice. "And it is your house, isn't it? I don't see that it concerns me at all!
"Pru?"
She turned from him and stomped angrily up the stairs. George stared after her, mouth open and, for once, completely speechless.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
GERTRUDE SMILED MUCH more broadly than she felt as she passed the tea tray to Mrs. Pugh who had volunteered to pour. Having paid little attention to what was going on, Gertrude hadn't even known there was going to be a party until she'd arrived home after the football game. And now Prudence had retired to her room with a "sick headache" and George was as grumpy as a bear.
She was conscripted into acting as hostess for Barkley House. An arduous task at any time, more so now when she could hardly keep her mind on where she was. With difficulty she maintained a calm decorum, inside she was still shaking.
At the game Claire had once again attempted to press through to the front of the crowd. Today Gertrude had been adamant about keeping out of sight. Mikolai was somewhere near the sidelines and under no circumstances did Gertrude want to stand next to him. Her heart pounded as loud as any drum whenever she saw him. And she genuinely feared that were they to come face-to-face, she might simply lose what meager shreds of self-control she still possessed and throw herself into his arms.
Never in her life had she really tried to control her impulses, but this was one time that she really must.
With that in mind, she had kept Claire with her, in the midst of the crowd, watching the game over the shoulders of the folks in front of them. It hadn't been very satisfactory, but it had kept her away from Mikolai.
At least it had for a little while. At the end of the game, Claire had quite literally dragged her over to Stefanski's Packard.
"I have to tell Teddy what a great game he played," Claire insisted.
She didn't mind at all offering her congratulations, though in truth the game passed her by in a whirl. What she did mind was standing next to Mikolai Stefanski in the sunshine of a crisp, cold afternoon and pretending that they were merely casual acquaintances.
He didn't speak.
She didn't speak.
They tried not to look at each other.
It was a useless attempt.
He was close, very close. His eyes were scanning the crowd around them, but he leaned slightly and whispered to her.
"I have to see you tomorrow."
"Impossible."
"Make it possible," he said.
"I could never get away on a Sunday," she protested.
"I could take you for a drive. A Sunday drive." His eyes were alight with hope. "It is done, you know."
She shook her head almost imperceptibly. "If we were to take a drive together, the people of this town would think that we were courting. They would start watching us. We could never be alone in the rented room again."
He allowed a long moment for those words to sink in before he nodded. "I couldn't live with that."
His words were simple. They were honest They were sincere. And they had made Gertrude tremble.
That trembling beset her once more as she stood among the uncomfortable crowd of people trying desperately to appear as if they were having a good time.
To the working people of Venice, George Barkley was a different breed. He was a banker. He held their money, if they ever managed to save any. But more likely he loaned them money, if he thought they deserved it, when times were rough. Drinking tea and eating dainty pastries with him was as foreign to these sons of miners and farmers as keeping their shoes under glass.
George, who was never really at his best dealing with people, was even more clumsy this evening than usual. The working-class folks, dressed in their Sunday best, seemed as uncomfortable with one another as they were with Barkley. And without Pru's calm, steady influence, Gertrude feared that the entire occasion might well come to a bad end. For her brother's sake, she tried to maintain a little social dignity. But she was floundering.
Mrs. Acres, who seemed near tears, explained that her husband had forgotten to t
ell her about the party until that very morning. And she had unknowingly washed her good dress for tomorrow.
"I brought it in and put the iron to it for a good half an hour, but it was still too wet to put on," she said disconsolately.
The faded calico that she wore was certainly still quite serviceable, and Gertrude told her so. But the woman was frustrated and furious.
"I could just kill that man of mine," she complained. "I'm finally invited into the Barkley house and I'm forced to wear rags."
Gertrude had no clue how to answer that. She mumbled something lamely to the effect that Mrs. Acres should return anytime she liked and felt dressed for the occasion. The words didn't appear to offer the woman much comfort.
Her nephew Lester, without his mother and chief guard in sight, was crawling under the furniture and grabbing handfuls of the delicate sweets from the table and stuffing them into his mouth. From across the room Gertrude saw him wipe his sticky hands on her grandmother's hand-crocheted tablecloth. She longed to race over and box the youngster's ears, but it was not something that she supposed a hostess was allowed to do.
Primrose Bounty, Tate Bounty's second and considerably younger wife, was critical. Apparently her two years of working as an upstairs maid in the Campbell house in St. Louis qualified her as an expert on fine household accoutrements.
"Is this the best china you have here at Barkley House, Miss Gertrude? I've seen finer in Mr. Wentworth's store."
"My grandmother brought this with her from Virginia," Gertrude assured her.
The woman sniffed. "It's just plain white. Seems to me that lofty folks like yourselves could afford some plates with a few flowers on 'em."
Aggie Wilson had her own brand of disapproval. "So Mrs. Barkley took to bed with a sick headache."
"Yes, she did."
"Mighty inconvenient time, if you ask me," Mrs. Wilson said. "'Course, I guess some women can just indulge an affliction, while some of us can't."
On an intellectual level Gertrude was impressed that economic class seemed to be no deterrent to cattiness and gossip. The wives of the brick workers could have fit in easily at the middle-class hen party known as the Algonquin Society. Practically, however, Gertrude knew that as the substitute hostess it was her duty to see that the guests enjoyed themselves and left with a good feeling about Barkley House and the Barkleys. How she was going to manage that she simply did not know.
Help arrived rather unexpectedly and in the unlikely person of Mikolai Stefanski.
Gertrude hadn't even heard his knock. She noticed his arrival when his name was called by some of the men. Her head jerked up as if pulled by a string. He was here. She hadn't expected him. He was not one who was given to attending social occasions. And this particular one was given more for the men in his employ than for himself.
She watched him walking through the parlor, politely greeting her guests. He knew them. All of them. Most of them worked for him and the few who didn't had all asked for work at one time or another.
The crowd seem to relax in his presence. They were used to seeing him dressed in a suit. He was familiar and unthreatening.
"Evenin', boss."
"Mr. Stefanski."
"Hello, Stefanski, what a game, huh?"
Gertrude watched Mikolai nod politely, respond evenly and slowly. His movement among the people seemed to have no set direction, but with certainty he made his way across the room to her.
He was there then, right in front of her.
"Would you like some tea?" she offered, before she remembered that she had turned that job over to Mrs. Pugh, who was on the other side of the room.
Mikolai smiled. "No, I have no need for tea," he said.
He stood beside her. She knew why he was there. Why he was standing politely at her side. He simply wanted to be close. She wanted that, too. Here in this crowd he could be close without conjuring up undue suspicion. He turned his gaze to the crowd. The folks were stealing glances in his direction and then whispering to themselves.
"What seems to be going on?" he asked.
Gertrude's expression was half desperate. "Pru has gone to bed with a sick headache and I've been drafted into duty as hostess."
"A task at which I'm sure you are very competent," he said.
She shook her head. "Not these days," she answered.
He raised a bushy brow in question.
"I ... I can't seem to keep my mind on anything . . . anything except my afternoons," she said.
His pale hazel eyes widened and then grew hazy. He nodded as if making a perfunctory flattery and replied so quietly only she could hear. "I would like to get your back against a mattress at this very minute."
Gertrude swallowed nervously and then cleared her throat. He did likewise.
"So how is the evening?" he asked more loudly, attempting to douse the fire that he'd unabashedly stoked.
"I'm afraid things are not going so well," she replied.
"And why is that?" he asked.
Gertrude shook her head. "I'm not sure. The people who are not familiar with this house appear very uncomfortable."
Mikolai turned to survey the crowd. Each and every person that he glanced at smiled at him. Gertrude was nonplussed.
"Believe me," she said, surprised. "Just a few minutes ago everyone was terribly uneasy. But now . . ." She glanced around, puzzled. "They seem to have something to talk about. I can't figure out—" She turned to glance toward him.
The abrupt halt of her words caused him to look at her.
"I know what it is that they are staring at," she said.
"What?"
"You are smiling, Mr. Stefanski."
He raised his brushy brow in surprise and then to the complete surprise of the entire company he laughed out loud.
"You are right, Miss Gertrude. I do seem to be grinning like a fool."
Gertrude felt the warmth in her cheeks. "It's an expression I've grown quite fond of, but it's a new one for the people of Venice."
"Perhaps I should let them get more familiar with it," he said. Then he added more quietly, "And perhaps I can help out a woman for whom I have developed a great affection."
He gave her a slight bow of courtesy and moved on into the crowd. To everyone's surprise, including Gertrude's, he seemed to exude welcome and good humor. The stiff, solemn Polishman proved tonight to be warm and generous.
"Avery," he called out to Mr. Parks. "That boy of yours is passing so well I ought to send a telegram to Jesse Harper at Notre Dame."
"The Parkses ain't Catholic," Tom Acres pointed out unnecessarily before Pete Wilson jabbed him in the ribs.
Mikolai laughed as if the man had made a great joke. "I don't believe the Pope will mind as long as he wins football games," he said.
Good-natured laughter broke out all over the room.
Mrs. Pugh poured Stefanski a cup of tea and half the company decided that they needed a refill.
"I was so proud of my Teodor," he told the crowd. "When he runs through that line, I am breathing so hard, you would think I am running myself."
There was much laughter and understanding at his words. Avery Parks even slapped Mikolai on the back as if they were long companions.
"I know what you mean, Mr. Stefanski," he said. "Every time Paul drifts back for a pass, I think I've got to hold my mouth just right or he'll never get that pigskin down to the fellow in the right colored shirt."
The parents began reliving the afternoon's game, telling it as if they personally had taken the field. Even Dr. Ponder, whose son Delfane was the yell-leader, not a player, talked as if he had personally won the game.
Gertrude watched, pleased and awed. This Mikolai was new, very new, to Venice, Missouri. And she had brought him here. She stared at the scene before her, wrapped in an unexpected glow. If only she could capture this moment, this one moment where the world was happy and laughing and her Mikolai was in the middle of it.
"Psst!" she heard behind her.
She turne
d back, but at first she didn't see anything. Then it was only a familiar hand at the kitchen door that beckoned her.
Puzzled, she unobtrusively stepped away from her post and into the kitchen. Claire and Teddy both stood there. Both looked pale and upset.
"What's wrong?" Gertrude asked.
"Papa didn't tell you?" Claire asked.
'Tell me what?"
She looked over at Teddy as if to ask for advice. The young man shrugged uncertainly.
"Prudence and George had an argument," Claire said. The young girl seemed to be waiting for Gertrude to comment.
Gertrude nodded. It explained George's bad mood and Pru's untimely headache. "These things happen, dear," she told Claire. "It's nothing to be upset about."
Claire hesitated, glancing over at Teddy once more. "Nobody said a word to you?" she asked again.
"No, they didn't," Gertrude said evenly. "And I'm sure that your parents' disagreements are not my concern. Nor should they be yours."
Claire looked at Teddy once more and then stiffened her lip and raised her chin. "They were fighting about me."
Gertrude's mouth formed an O of understanding. She reached over and patted her niece comfortingly upon the shoulder. "I'm sure it's nothing, Claire. Please don't hold yourself responsible."
"They don't think Teddy and I should marry," she said.
Gertrude's eyes widened. "I thought that you had decided to wait to mention it until after college."
"I changed my mind," she said, then with a glance over at Teddy, she rephrased her words. "We've changed our minds. We don't want to wait."
"But, darlings, of course you should wait." She directed her words to both of them. "Marriage is a very important step and one shouldn't take it without proper consideration."
"We've considered it and we are getting married. We are getting married very soon. That is, Aunt Gertrude, unless you can give us any really good reason why we shouldn't."
