Devonny sorted through Annie’s wardrobe to find something sufficiently dressy for town, but if there was any such thing, Annie had taken it with her to Norway. Annie’s wardrobe consisted of dull dark colors in heavy hard materials, like the overalls of workmen.
Finally Devonny located a long flowered skirt and a blouse so large that nothing was revealed of her actual body, although it did not make her pretty, either. It was just cloth, and it was there.
“Perfect,” enthused Mrs. Lockwood. “Now, I take the seven-oh-two train, so I will set the alarm for five-thirty.”
In the morning? Yes, servants and cooks and tenders of heating systems got up at such an hour, but people didn’t! “That will be fine,” said Devonny, uttering one of her hugest lies.
And at five-thirty in the morning, they leaped from bed, showered, dressed, gulped coffee, rushed to the car, drove to the station, bought a ticket that cost as much as a week’s rent, and finally sat crushed together on a rickety excuse for a train where nobody talked or had any fun but read a morning newspaper.
Devonny was thrilled to read the paper. Her stepmother Florinda was not permitted to read the paper, lest politics and threat of war upset her delicate balance.
They arrived at Grand Central Station (surely it had been much more grand?), took the subway, popped up out of the ground and walked several blocks to Mrs. Lockwood’s office.
The buildings were so tall that Devonny could not think of it. What made them stand up? What if they fell? What if all that glass hit the pavement? How did you climb that many stairs?
But the streets were so clean—no horse droppings—and the cars so obedient to traffic fixtures. It was wonderful, how these people who did not know how to eat knew how to be kind in traffic.
The women had no sense of fashion. Black was the color of choice, or ivory or olive green. Was the nation in mourning? To Devonny’s eye, they were dressing like men. She could not understand this. There were so few advantages to being a woman. Surely magnificent clothing was one, and these women had money of their own, which was most rare, but they were not spending it on clothing. Or if they were, they were making poor choices.
Not a single individual wore white gloves. Devonny could not imagine occupying an urban world and touching it. Why, you would have to wash your hands constantly!
Neither men nor women wore hats. Devonny never left a portion of her body undecorated. Indeed, these people had abandoned the most delightful frothy clothing of all! The only hats to be seen were worn by the more frightening young men on the street, whose skulls were covered by gaudy knit caps.
Mrs. Lockwood’s work took place on the phone and on her computer screen. Devonny could not entirely figure out what she was doing, but it was terribly exciting to Mrs. Lockwood, who forgot Devonny, and shouted into the phone, and took notes, and bit pencils, and handled two telephone calls at once while typing madly at her keyboard and staring at the results on the screen. Devonny was quite out of breath considering it all.
At two o’clock Mrs. Lockwood remembered lunch, opened her briefcase, handed Devonny a sandwich (hard and dry), a tiny round cake wrapped in clear slick paper, and a little box of grapes, so hard to open that the gentleman at the next computer had to break into it for Devonny, and then she spilled it everywhere because the box contained grape juice instead of grapes. How on earth did you keep liquid in a box?
Mrs. Lockwood flung her apparatus down. “Isn’t this wonderful, Devonny? I love what I do. I love work. Can you imagine a life with nothing to do except get ready for a party?”
“Shocking,” said Devonny, who had done it successfully for years.
Nobody seemed normal here, especially the females. A female must not be curious, assertive or different. She must not want adventure. Even to dream of being like the few brave women in the world (Ida Tarbell the muckraker, Florence Nightingale going to war, Jane Addams starting Hull House) was wrong. Difference in a woman would involve unseemly activities among men.
But all these women were among men, and nobody noticed, especially the men.
Mrs. Lockwood’s new assistant was a young woman named Lindsay, who had just had a baby. “Oh, lovely,” said Devonny, feeling on solid ground here. “Tell me about your baby.”
“It’s a girl,” Lindsay said. “David had his heart set on a boy. So I’m going to get pregnant again right away.”
Devonny looked out the window at a skyline that was so very different, listening to a sentence so very familiar. “Do you feel the same?”
“Well, of course I’m delighted with Ashley, she’s so precious, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything, but I do want a boy. So we’ll keep trying.”
Even in Annie’s time, thought Devonny, having a girl means try again. Get it right.
Mr. Stratton requested the honor of Lord Winden’s presence at his town house for a discussion of the choices now available to them.
Sitting frozen and terrified in the parlor was the first Mrs. Stratton.
Hugh-David bowed. “Madam,” he said, “how you must be suffering with anxiety, even as I am.”
“Her suffering,” said Hiram Stratton, “is nothing compared to what it will be.”
Hugh-David raised his eyebrows.
“Aurelia, tell the man what you have done.”
Hugh-David moved closer to her, for if he could not be the hero that Flossie expected, at least he could be encouraging to Devonny’s mother.
Mrs. Stratton was trying not to sob. “First, sir,” she said to Hugh-David, “I shall tell you what Mr. Stratton has done. Perhaps you heard mention of our very dear son, Strat.”
“Aurelia!” said Mr. Stratton dangerously.
“I shall tell him all of it or none of it,” said Aurelia.
Mr. Stratton shrugged.
Hugh-David felt chilled. Surely this man never shrugged about anything, ever, in this world.
“My husband was very angry with Strat a few years ago because Strat had fallen in love and was full of silly stories about a girl named Annie. She was some sort of tramp and disappeared one day. Strat was deeply upset and said all manner of ridiculous things and argued strenuously with his father and with various household guests. He behaved badly. Arguments escalated. Soon anger between them had reached a fever pitch, and my husband felt he was no longer in control of his child. He took his revenge by pretending Strat was insane.”
Hiram Stratton looked amused. He locked his fingers together on his large distended waist and rocked on his heels, contemplating the ceiling.
“He had our son locked up in an asylum to teach him a lesson. The lesson was: Never argue with your parent. Obey. Do not talk back. But Strat managed to escape, and there was a terrible accident, and my darling boy, my sweet and lovely son, was killed.”
Hugh-David found himself kneeling, holding her cold hand between his. A father so harsh that he pretended the family blood was ruined in order to make a point? No wonder the poor woman’s face was lined with sorrow.
Would Devonny ever have told Hugh-David where and how Strat had died? Would they have reached such a point of trust?
A line of sorrow formed on his own, much younger, face. For he had made it clear to his bride that she was not to waste time trusting him; she was simply a conduit for the money he needed.
“Have no respect for me, sir,” said Mrs. Stratton quietly. “Divorced and unnecessary in life, I was desperately lonely. I was not permitted to visit my children. My allowance was so small I could scarcely afford to leave the house, let alone attend the symphony or the opera. I could not afford the fashions necessary to pay visits or reply to invitations. Eventually, there were no friends and no invitations. My life was dark and cold.”
He, too, hated dark cold corners, and stayed at his club, or traveled, or invited houseguests in order to warm himself by their conversation.
“So I arrived at a decision,” said the mother of Devonny and Strat. “I would blackmail Hiram. In that letter, I would write that if his son had tai
nted blood, so did his daughter. Were this dread fact to be made public, no man would marry that daughter, lest the children of the marriage also be insane. Hiram believed the threat,” she said, sounding proud of herself for writing such an effective letter. “He seized upon you, Lord Winden. He flung that wedding together in days. His scheme was to put you two on a ship and get you out of the country before this hideous truth became known. While you were getting Devonny with child, he would track down and destroy the blackmailer.”
Hugh-David had thought himself sophisticated; he had thought little would shock him. He was shocked. His own mother, who would manipulate anybody anywhere for any end, might have stopped before doing what Aurelia Stratton had done.
She rushed on with her wicked tale. “I was sure he would never find me out. I was sure that Devonny, given control of her fortune, would bring me to England, and I would be part of the new family! And I would have parties and fashions and friends and joy and music once more!”
Hiram sent the wrong one to the insane asylum, thought Hugh-David. She is insane from poverty. Insane from the loss of her son. “It worked well, Mrs. Stratton. But where is Devonny now? Did you arrange this also?”
The little woman gave him a strange clear look, past grief and fear, as if she had abandoned both her hope and her body.
His anxiety grew huge. It seemed to fill the room, like some noxious air. What had the woman done? What had they all done—he and the father and the mother—in their greed and selfishness?
“I know nothing of what has happened to Devonny,” she said. “This has ruined me. My carefully laid plans—someone has destroyed them.”
She did not care what had happened to Devonny. She was concerned with her ruined plans.
Oh, Devonny! he thought. No one knows where you are. No friend, and no foe. I too have been an instrument in your suffering. Nor have I accomplished a thing. What park or room or alley am I to search? How to storm the city? Where is the mysterious letter, from which I could divine what cellar or garrett holds you prisoner?
But the days had passed. A kidnapper who did not care about a diamond necklace was not going to write in for a ransom. Hugh-David thought of Aurelia’s dark insanity, Hiram’s cruel fatherhood, Strat’s lonely death, Devonny’s unknown fate.
My mother will soon arrive, he thought, and will terrify everybody in sight. Including me.
He remembered telling Devonny she would be fine in England as long as she submitted to everything her mother-in-law said. But nobody was really fine around Hugh-David’s mother; in fact, most people related to this woman spent their lives trying to avoid her.
I was going to use my wife to stand between me and my mother, he thought. Use Devonny to soak up my mother’s temper and demands and thoughtlessness.
The tally of the ways in which he had planned to abandon Devonny was mounting. His opinion of himself slipped downward in proportion.
He left the splendid building that housed the failed Stratton family, wishing that something as simple as joining the French Foreign Legion would save Devonny. But that was in books. In life, in the city, on the street, he did not know how to find her.
Nobody came to claim the necklace.
Except his mother.
EIGHT
Mrs. Lockwood came to soccer practice the following Saturday.
It wasn’t half so much fun with her there. How could Tod be a big important strong coach when his own mother was pacing around and making suggestions, which in her case were mainly orders? He was just a teenager doing an assigned chore.
“Do we have enough money to buy everybody an ice cream, Mrs. Lockwood?” asked Devonny. “Let’s go to the store and get ice cream treats for the whole team.”
Mrs. Lockwood thought that was an okay idea. Tod thought it was brilliant, and he smiled at Devonny, a smile that made her think twice about the twentieth century.
Devonny managed several detours to lengthen the errand. She needed to see how the high school game was coming along; she must dart into the pharmacy for lip balm and stop at home to get warmer gloves.
When they got back to the field, Tod and the Laura’s Fabric Shop team were huddled around the bench, creating a strategy nobody could do and nobody would remember.
What a father he will be to his daughters, thought Devonny. What a husband he will be to his wife.
She was overwhelmed with wanting to be a good wife and a good mother, and to do these things with a good man.
At home, thought Devonny, men “do.” Girls “are.” But I’m watching a dozen little girls who not only expect to “do,” but are being trained to “do” and love it. They will be like Tod’s mother; they will run their team and make their goals.
What do I want?
Do I want to stay here and “do”?
Or do I want to go home and “be”?
She laughed painfully. She had no choice; Time had made it for her. These little girls on Tod’s team: for them, the whole world was a choice. It was frightening to Devonny how much possibility lay ahead of these girls.
Yet they led such hard lives, these people!
They did not commence the day by drawing a serene hot bath, but leaped into a vertical box with a waterfall of water, cleansing in seconds. Then they leaped out and dressed themselves, and was there a hot meal awaiting to break the long fast of night? No. In the kitchen (kitchen! a lady had no place in a kitchen) you made your own (cold) breakfast.
And in class! The amount you were supposed to know!
It was undignified. There was no leisure. There was no elegance.
In Tod’s school, the girls were tough. They whipped each other in sports, they aced exams, they chaired committees, they won science scholarships, they got into superior colleges, they even got into West Point!
They did not cling. They did not demurely await a man’s pleasure. They were not demure.
After school, either they worked at a fast-food place or went there and had the fast food served by friends. Devonny would truly rather be dead than bring other people food or clean up after them.
Then the whole family had to work together to come up with dinner. Devonny herself was made to peel a potato.
Now they wolfed this food down and then sat in front of a television to watch other people talk and sing and dance while they did homework, and then they went to bed with no assistance. No one had freshened the room, nor fluffed the pillows, nor prepared a hot-water bottle, nor filled the bedside carafe with cold water.
The day is going to come when Mrs. Lockwood will insist she has to call my supposed parents in England and tell them how much she loves me and what a fine guest I am, thought Devonny, and what will we do then, when we have to admit there is no family?
Family.
The cold burn of anxiety hit her again.
Oh, Mama, what are you suffering? You have made your terrible bed and must lie in it, and I took one great terrible step across Time and must accept it also.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” said Mrs. Lockwood, all concern, all hug.
Devonny found herself close to tears. “I feel very alone.”
“It’s difficult to cross an ocean to another country, I’m sure,” agreed Mrs. Lockwood.
If she knew how great the ocean was! “You are so good at doing things by yourself,” said Devonny.
“Everybody here is so good at striding forward alone.”
“Alone?” said Mrs. Lockwood. “I’m not alone. Alone is hard and awful. Nobody wants to be alone. I have made a great sacrifice and many compromises so that I will not be alone, Devonny.”
Devonny did not believe this. “Tod says I’m a weak-minded Victorian who can’t stand on her own feet.”
“Where does he get this Victorian stuff, anyway? He keeps throwing that word around.”
“I cannot imagine,” said Devonny, and she kept her composure by distributing ice cream, while she imagined Victorian stuff: her world, her life, her friends, her family; the fiber of her soul.
>
There were three towers in the immense brown-shingled summer mansion by the shore. One was splendid, with a telescope and writing table for jotting observations of weather and natural history. It was not frequently used; not since a guest had been shot here last year.
One tower was part of the master bedroom, and Hiram’s fourth wife frequently fled to the sanctuary of that high place. Hiram could not follow, because his bulk was too great for the tiny winding stair.
But the third tower was simply to match and look graceful. It was inconvenient and not used for anything. It was reached by stooping through a low attic.
The carpenters had nailed wood over the windows.
A cot was placed against one cold wall, where the chilly winter wind sifted through the cracks. A chamber pot, a Bible and two blankets had been placed by the cot.
The door had been flimsy, but now was strong, and bolted from the outside.
“You will be fed,” said Hiram, “you who threatened me. But you will not have a life.”
He slammed the door hard, slid the bolt so that it shrieked, smacked a servant who did not get out of his way and smiled to himself. Aurelia was out of his life—and out of her own—as if she had never been.
Downstairs, servants were covering the furniture with white sheets. Silver was packed to be taken back to New York for the winter, while crystal and china were shelved in the butler’s pantry to await the spring. Rugs were rolled up and carried outdoors to be hung on lines and beaten clean. Horses were taken from the stable to board in town until Hiram needed them again next year.
Hiram strode out of doors to consider his view instead of his problems. As usual, the view entertained him not at all, and he was back to his problems.
It had felt good to see those hammers swing and force those nails forever into the window frames; it had felt good to see the fear and resignation of that old shriveled woman who had tried to damage him; but it did not feel good to stand here and know it accomplished nothing.
Nobody had accomplished anything.
His silly wife, Florinda, occupied herself writing letters to everybody they had ever known, especially in California, hoping for a clue to Devonny’s whereabouts.