Patricia’s eyes were hard and fiercely blue. Her utter contempt for anyone who didn’t think her most important glowed like a beacon through her eyes. It was Lilly whose eyes filled with tears, and they began to run slowly down her cheeks. She saw what was going to happen to her sister, and for the first time in all her life she understood completely. John would lay his body over a bed of nails for her to walk across, denying her nothing, claiming nothing for himself, and worshiping her beauty and charm even when she was at her most cruel. Patricia would go away with him to New York, or anywhere, and play the heroine in his books. The cities she visited would become her stage, and she would have fame and admiration where she had failed to find it before.
She couldn’t puncture the thick walls of society with her marriage. She couldn’t reign over the hotel while Amanda held court and Lilly was seen as the heiress. This she could do: she could be a famous writer’s inspiration. As long as she was careful not to be too well known among her acquaintances, they might believe she was a good, generous, sweet woman. The only one really to suffer would be John; he apparently welcomed the pain of being used.
“Say good-bye to Mama, Patsy. Please.”
“You may tell her I’m leaving if you like. I’m not going upstairs. I can’t believe anyone will care that I’m leaving.”
“We all care. We all wanted you to be happy, only none of us was willing to let you use us. You’ll never understand that.”
“I think I understand well enough what the lot of you have in store for me! None of you has ever loved me! Damn, if I had known you’d build a bloody famous hotel, do you think I’d have married that wretch? But you couldn’t forgive me one mistake! You couldn’t let me in your fancy world! Use you? I only wanted to be one of you!”
“We work very hard, Patsy. You didn’t want to--”
“I can’t work! I don’t know how!”
Lilly sniffed back her tears and wiped her cheeks. “Mama will come down here to see you…I feel certain. If no one else tells you this, I’d like you to know--you may come home when you need us. But the terms will always be the same. This place is not here to serve you. We can give you lodging--but we can’t give you all the adoration you seem to need.”
Patricia folded a shawl. She didn’t look up.
“I love you, Patsy,” Lilly said.
“Don’t lie!” Patricia snapped. “It’s too late!”
“But I do love you. You just always mistook love for something else.”
Lilly was the only one who attempted to stop Patricia. Both Amanda and Emily went to her suite to say good-bye, but neither argued with her. Emily asked her to write to them; she promised to take good care of Katherine and hoped Patricia would be happy.
Patricia had her baggage loaded onto a cart that followed an Armstrong Arms coach that took her to the train station. Emily watched the departure of the cart and coach from the roof. Her tears of loss were silent. Then a darkness settled over the household while each of the women tried to fathom what tactic she might have used to reach Patricia and save her from her own greed. Each one attempted to decide, personally, where she had failed.
The next day a telegram arrived. Emily Armstrong solemnly told Lilly that Ned was killed during a card game in Chicago. But she put the telegram away without letting anyone see it.
Andrew’s face in the Reading station was familiar after over three years of monthly visits with his wife. He would routinely take the town coach to the picturesque little country house that he’d bought for Brenda and Mr. and Mrs. Sherman. The hills that surrounded the two-storey stone farmhouse were coming alive with greenery; a stream ran nearby and a barn stood apart from the house. A few animals grazed--sheep, goats, cows, and horses.
He always fought apprehension when the coach neared the house; he could never predict what he might find within. On his last visit Brenda had been a visitor in the sane world. The front door was open on top to let the spring breeze through and when Brenda came to the door, smiled and waved, he breathed an audible sigh of relief. She must be having a good spell.
She ran to him and put her arms around his neck. “Oh, Andrew, I knew you would come! I’ve been so lonely!”
“You look well,” he said, smiling at her and walking with her into the house.
“I’ve been well for nearly two whole months. It’s Father Demetrius, you know. He visits with me and prays with me. I’ve been feeling better right along.”
“Hello, Mr. Devon,” Mrs. Sherman greeted brightly. “I’m fixing tea. Give me a few more minutes.”
“We’ll go for a walk,” Brenda said. “It’s all right, Andrew, I’ve been walking a lot lately. Father says it’s good for me. We’ll go down to the stream and come back.”
She took him by the hand in a girlish way, leading him out of the house. He could see Mr. Sherman with a pitchfork full of hay down the hill by the barn, feeding stock. There had been visits when Brenda looked good, just as there had been visits during which she had become so agitated she had to be given a heavy dose of laudanum. Her appearance today was almost too good to be true: her cheeks had filled in; her back was straighter.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” he said, holding her hand and walking with her. It was his routine to be cautious in conversation until he knew how she would react.
“I’ve been sewing and baking with Mrs. Sherman. I’ve been to town twice--there isn’t much to do there, but it’s an outing. And I see Father Demetrius almost every afternoon. I’m resting better because of him. Andrew,” she said, stopping and turning toward him. “Andrew, I’m going to be well.”
“Good,” he said, moving on.
“No, I mean it! You have to believe me this time! I haven’t had any bad spells. I’m not so sick anymore! I know they told you it was hopeless--Mrs. Sherman said as much. But you must believe me-- I’m getting well!”
“Who is this priest?” he asked. “Are you sure he’s good for you?”
“He has the local parish--he’s something of a celebrity around here. His prayers have helped more than one ailing person.”
“And you like him?”
“I adore him, Andrew. He is the kindest, most wonderful-- What more can I tell you? I haven’t felt this well in years.”
“Good, Brenda, good. I do believe you. Don’t excite yourself. Let’s not borrow trouble.”
“Andrew, take me home, please…I want to go home. I’ll be good, I promise. Please.”
“I told you, Brenda, I sold the house. I have a small flat and this. There just isn’t anything more. I have nowhere to take--”
“I’ll go with you to your flat,” she said.
“I think it’s too soon, Brenda.”
“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”
“No, I--”
“You are! I’ll show you I’m getting well. I’ll prove it to you. I don’t hear people talking to me anymore, Andrew. I know that was all that was ever wrong. Mother! She just wouldn’t leave me alone. She just wouldn’t die. But Father has taken care of that.”
“What? What has he done, Brenda?”
“Just prayer,” she said, smiling confidently. Andrew looked at her closely. Her eyes were calm, not wild, and although she sounded a bit desperate, she appeared to be sane. “He simply helped me pray her into a quiet rest. He helped me give up my suffering to God. I’m going to be all right now.”
He studied her eyes as she spoke. His hand moved to touch the dark hair at her temple, hair that was clean and shiny rather than wilted and mussed as on some other occasions.
“You’ve become gray, Andrew. That’s my fault, I think. Somehow, I’ll make it up to you. No one really tells me what I’ve done in sickness, but I have nightmares sometimes…I think I know how terrible I’ve been. It’s all right if you can’t ever forgive me. I--”
“Brenda, forgiveness or the lack of it is not an issue. I would like you to be well. It’s all I’ve wanted for you.”
She chattered on about the priest, about
newfound sleep and health and forgiveness. She led him to the narrow stream on the property and sat down on the grass. It was remarkable how much like a farm girl she looked in a cotton print dress with her dark hair curled in a braid. Her skin was smooth and healthy, her voice clear and sane. He braced himself for a momentary lapse that did not come.
“Will you think about taking me home?” she asked him.
“Of course,” he lied, his brow furrowing. “But I don’t want you to rush back into the city, Brenda. I’d like us to be sure.”
“If I stay well? If I don’t have spells, will you?”
“Just give it time, Brenda.”
“Do you still love me, Andrew?” she asked. When he hesitated, she ran on. “Oh, I promised Father I wasn’t going to do that! Forgive me, Andrew! I can’t expect so much of you. You were the only person in the world to stand by me, take care of me. Mr. Sherman told me all about the horrible asylums I could have been locked away in, places where people can’t become well. You must believe me, Andrew, I know I owe my life to you! I know I don’t deserve you. I can’t force you to forget or forgive! I won’t try.”
“Brenda, tell me how this has happened to you. Was it only prayer? The priest?”
She shrugged and looked down. “Father Demetrius said that the demons I ran from were only memories that I tried too hard to fight. I locked the past inside and it festered there making terrible sores in me. He said I didn’t really have mania, but fear and confusion. We talked a lot about the kinds of things I was afraid of, and finally I began to realize I’m safe.”
“I knew the priest had been visiting you, but--”
“It took a very long time for me to even be aware of his visits, his prayers. I’m not sure why he took this special interest in me. He’s quite a nice gent; Mrs. Sherman invites him to dinner, and I know he wants to meet you. I know what worries you, Andrew. You’re afraid it’s a passing thing. I was afraid too. It isn’t.”
He smiled at her then, amazed and troubled by what seemed to be recovery. Afraid of what seemed to be recovery. He thought of Lilly.
“I want you to be well,” he said again.
“Andrew, don’t leave me. Stay here with me.”
“I can’t, Brenda. You know I can’t.”
“It’s other women, isn’t it? Mrs. Sherman told me it’s been three years. I just didn’t feel the time. She reminded me about an annulment. I can’t stop you from that, Andrew. I remember, you know. I remember what Mother made me do to you. It was terrible of me, and I don’t blame you if you can’t love me again.”
“Brenda, let’s not resurrect all the suffering that--”
“But if I can be well--if I can be a good wife, will you think about giving me another chance? I promise not to blame you if you can’t, but will you think about it?”
“Yes,” he said, terrified of what saying no might do to her. “Of course.”
Father Demetrius was an old priest rumored to have phenomenal spiritual strength. He’d been in Reading for twenty years and was credited with the cures of several ailments through prayer. Mrs. Sherman confirmed that Brenda did indeed seem to be improving, but warned Andrew that there were slippery days. They hadn’t had a terrible time in months, but there had always been brief recoveries when Brenda had seemed normal. This was, however, the longest good spell. No one had wanted to give Andrew false hope. And fortunately, despite Brenda’s impatience, no one, not even the priest, thought it a good idea to move her back to the city. If health was here, here was where Brenda belonged until it could be certain her health was safe.
He had a decent weekend there, having Sunday dinner with the priest and walks with Brenda. He took a saddle horse around the grounds and ate good country food prepared by Mrs. Sherman. Mr. Sherman took him to the train station on Monday morning.
“What do you really think, Martin?” Andrew asked as they rode.
The man sighed rather heavily. “I think her wellness or illness is the least of your troubles, son. Knowin’ what the girl did to you on her mother’s demand, I think I can guess the depth of your problems now.”
“Don’t worry about my problems. Do you think she’s recovering?”
“I hope she’s recovering, Andrew. The way of it is this, the priest visited her when she didn’t know his name, when she sat like a stump and stared into the great beyond, answering questions none of us could hear. He talked to her anyway, said her name, prayed his prayers, blessed her. One day she recognized him and talked back. It’s been steady since. Every day better than the one before. Me and the missus, we aren’t of this faith, but the man’s been given a lot of credit around here. Maybe it’s true--maybe he’s made her well.”
Andrew nodded, knowing he should be more pleased.
“Give it a year, son,” Martin Sherman said, “a year to be sure and a year to get her accustomed to what has to be.”
“She’s my wife,” he said.
“You’ll take care of her, one way or the other, that I know. You’re a good enough man, given all that’s happened. Me and the missus understand what it might be like--we had the boy, sometimes mighty hard to love, hard to be thankful for. We had each other, you know--someone to be a friend in a friendless time. More’s the time we talked about what it might have been like, one of us so bad off and the other alone with the weight of it. We’re fond of Brenda. She’s a good girl--can’t help what’s been done to her. In some ways I suppose this is harder for you than the other. In some ways it must not be too easy to see the woman who hasn’t been a wife to you in so many years want another chance. Don’t get me wrong, son. I believe you want her well for her own sake. I’m only saying that I can believe in some ways this is harder to accept than the other.”
Andrew was silent a long time. “In some ways,” he finally said.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lilly was standing at the window of her office when Amanda came in. Amanda always gave two sharp taps and opened the door without being invited; Lilly often wondered what the knock was meant to do--give her time to hide what?
She had a good view of the grounds at the front of the hotel from her office window; she could see the Armstrong Arms coaches and horsecars arrive and depart, leaving and picking up guests at the broad portico below. She could see the rolling hills, manicured lawns, a large gazebo and bandstand, and the lower portion of what they had named the Queen Victoria Gardens, which was Lilly’s favorite place to stroll in spring and summer. To the far right, if she strained, she could make out the edge of the large pond, almost a lake. Swans moved gracefully across the water. They had cleared and cleaned the area, constructed a dock and had a few small boats for the leisure of the guests.
“Lilly, have you made a contract with an orchestra for the Fourth of July afternoon?” Amanda asked. Lilly didn’t have to turn around to know exactly how her grandmother looked: she would be wearing a high-necked afternoon suit and holding a sheaf of papers in her hand, and her reading spectacles balanced on her nose and attached to a ribbon that would be tacked to her jacket to keep from losing them.
“Not yet, Grandmother.”
“Arranged the fireworks display?” she asked.
“I’ll do that this week.”
“All right, let’s see…” Lilly heard the rustle of papers. “Ah, ordered beef for the barbecue?”
“Mama is taking care of that.”
“Yes, that’s right. The decoration of the ballroom?”
Lilly sighed. She turned around--there was the image she expected. She loved the sight of her grandmother working; without this work Amanda might become old. She still tinted her hair dark auburn, but had decided her sixties required she allow a little of the gray around her face to show; she called this her meager contribution to honesty. Lilly smiled appreciatively. “Will you come in and close the door, Grandmother? I’d like to tell you something.”
Amanda finally looked up from her bundle of loose papers and notes. She closed the door and let her spectacles dangle over her b
osom from the ribbon. There were two overstuffed chairs divided by a small table in Lilly’s office, and she joined Lilly there.
“I haven’t quite done my part around here, Gran,” Lilly said. “I was away for a month…and since I’ve been back I’ve accomplished almost nothing.”
“No one has complained about your work. With word of Ned’s death, Patricia’s antics, and all--all of us have moved slowly. It’s been a dark time.”
“My laziness has nothing to do with Patricia, nor with my departed father. I meant to speak to you immediately upon returning, but the household was so upset that I decided to wait a few days. It’s personal--rather delicate I suppose.”
“Well, now Lilly--”
“I’m pregnant.”
Amanda’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened considerably. She gripped her papers suddenly, crumbling them. Lilly was relieved that her grandmother didn’t clutch at her heart.
“Lilly, that’s absurd!”
Lilly smiled in spite of herself. “No, it’s quite real.”
“You don’t even have a man in your life!”
“Of course I do, Grandmother. I’m not going to give birth to the Christ child.”
“But who? You haven’t even…you’ve expressed no affection for any…God above! Who is it?”
“Now Gran, I’m afraid I don’t want to tell you that. You see, he isn’t going to marry me and so his name is rather irrelevant.”
Amanda reached for Lilly’s hand, but grasped her wrist. “But do you love him?”
“Oh yes, certainly.”
“Then he will marry you, or I’ll--”