Francie felt touched. Pop might be fighting shy of her, Glenn may have deserted her by falling in love with an outsider, but Marty, anyway, was loyal. Dear little Marty. There couldn’t be any doubt that her falling out with her crony Jinx had started in that row over Francie’s private affairs, and though it was only kid stuff, it was nice to think that somebody cared that much for her good name. She noticed with amusement that Marty watched Bruce with close attention while the rehearsal was going on. The girl was evidently determined to make up for her rudeness and to approve Francie’s decision no matter what her own opinion.
It had to be admitted that Bruce himself gave no encouragement to gossip. Coming past Francie’s chair at the beginning of the act he had merely said, “Hello, beautiful,” and patted her shoulder; since then he hadn’t even looked her in the eye. Nobody would have dreamed that they had ever kissed and clung together, as they had such a short time ago: she was beginning to wonder herself if she had dreamed it. Then she noticed Mrs. Fredericks at the back of the room, watching the rehearsal as she sometimes did, and she thought she understood. Nevertheless she felt piqued. It is not nice to feel that you are being neglected by your sweetheart out of policy. She hoped it would not be necessary for very much longer. It was hard not to give things away by watching Lucky; it was hard not to feel twinges of jealousy when he put his arm around his girl in the play, or when he and Chadbourne studied the script, their heads very close together. I’m getting morbid, she thought, and was ashamed of herself.
“Well, well, Frances Beatrice. You’ve heard the news, no doubt,” said Biddy. She had walked into the Birthday Box with slow inevitability, talking as she came. It was just bad luck for Francie that Mrs. Ryan was out—or was it careful management on Cousin Biddy’s part? One never knew.
Francie tried not to stare at her like a hypnotized rabbit. “I hear lots of news,” she said. “Which did you mean? We’re using your idea about the play, of course.”
“Oh, I knew that. I knew that a long time ago. No, this is a more private piece of information.” Biddy smiled, and if Francie had really been a rabbit, the smile would have been enough to send her scuttling. As it was, she wished she knew where to scuttle to. There was no doubt in her mind that Biddy was about to humiliate her unforgivably by springing the word about Pop—a matter on which, alas, she was still completely ignorant. Stoutly she gave battle until the last minute.
“I haven’t any idea what you mean,” she said.
“That’s funny. I understand you were one of the first to know.” Biddy sounded puzzled.
“Well, honestly, Cousin Biddy, unless you give me some idea what you’re talking about—”
Biddy wagged an admonishing finger at her. “Frances Beatrice, you needn’t think you have to be careful with me. I was on the telephone just now with Mrs. Stevens, and I’m sure she said that you know about it.”
Francie flared up. “I must say, Mrs. Stevens might find something better to do than gossip so much. I did hear that she’s been talking around, but—”
“Gossip? Is that what you call it? Well, Frances Beatrice, all I can say is, you just wait until you’re a mother and your only son gets engaged, and then you won’t be so quick to condemn poor Mrs. Stevens.”
Francie stared, her jaw hanging. All her ideas somersaulted. Glenn, of course! She’d been so worried about Pop that the fact of Glenn’s engagement hadn’t entered her head in this connection, and yet of course he’d told his mother during the visit. Nothing could have been more natural; in fact, now that she thought of it, he had said it was his reason for going home so suddenly. It was unlikely that the Stevens family had taken the time to talk about anything else, even Pop’s affairs. What an egocentric she was becoming!
“Oh yes, Cousin Biddy. Sorry, I forgot about that,” she said.
Biddy peered at her with her familiar henlike gaze so that Francie almost expected her to turn her head and look out of one eye. She took her time about it. At last, when Francie was nervous enough to scream, she broke the tension with a sniff and said, “I do believe you’re telling the truth. Well, it’s beyond me.”
“What’s beyond you?”
“You,” said Biddy. “I always thought there was something between you two. I still think there was, whatever’s happened since. And yet you stand there cool as a cucumber and forget to mention that he’s got himself engaged to somebody else.”
“We were high-school friends,” said Francie said defensively. “That doesn’t mean anything now.”
“Girls who are too high-and-mighty sometimes find themselves on the shelf before they know it,” said Cousin Biddy. “One of these days you may be sorry you were so choosy. Don’t forget, a girl gets more particular and less attractive every year.”
Hold it, said Francie to herself, hold it. Don’t throw that bronze incense burner at Biddy, and don’t be rude. Don’t give her that satisfaction. Disappoint her, it’s the only way.
She drew a deep breath, mentally counting to ten, and then she smiled. “Thanks, Cousin Biddy, I’ll try not to forget,” she said.
“He’s bringing the girl home soon to meet his mother,” said Biddy accusingly. Then her attention wandered; she looked out the window at Brace’s blue car where it stood at the curb in front of Fredericks & Worpels. It gave her thoughts a new turn, possibly a dangerous one. “They’re saying …” she began, and then, just in time to save her from assault and battery, Florence Ryan came tripping along the pavement to the door, carrying a load of white pasteboard boxes.
“Give me a hand with this, dear, will you?” she asked. Francie hurried to assist her and Biddy couldn’t get another word in. She left soon afterwards, but her presence seemed to linger around the shop for the rest of the day. She had left a nagging little uneasiness with Francie. Of course it was all Biddyish nonsense about her having lost Glenn. Glenn had never really been Francie’s to lose, she reflected: it was as she had said, they were friends as children and adolescents, but everybody knew these kid affairs hardly ever came to anything, and the little sentimentality they had experienced recently was nostalgia—pure nostalgia, she repeated stoutly, pleased with the phrase. Nevertheless, she didn’t like to think that Jefferson was looking on and pitying her for having managed badly. It was shaming that they should dare to think so. Because she was Francie Nelson, who had been the belle of her year in Jefferson High, and if they only knew, she was still somebody who counted. She had captivated the sighed-for, fabulous Lucky Munson—but they didn’t know, at least most of them didn’t, and she couldn’t advertise it. Pride as well as heart was involved. Oh, bother Cousin Biddy. Why couldn’t she go and scratch in somebody’s else’s back yard? Wasn’t life complicated enough?
To help forget her temperish outburst, and also in hopes of seeing Bruce and refreshing herself, Francie went next door to Fredericks & Worpels. She had an excuse ready if she needed it: she could always discuss stagesets and costumes with Chadbourne, who kept most of the plans there in the office. As she came past the plate glass window she saw a mildly interesting tableau. Bruce and Chadbourne were bent together over a book. His arm was crooked at the elbow and he leaned comfortably, though not heavily, on Chadbourne’s shoulder as they leaned against a counter displaying a length of upholstery velvet.
It was a harmless sight, just a young man and a girl who knew each other well and behaved in informal, friendly fashion, but Francie was not the only spectator, and other people seemed to have other ideas. Just as she opened the door to go in, Lottie Fredericks appeared at the inner door, the one leading to the office, and she looked indulgently at what she saw. It was only a momentary expression that was gone in a flash, and she resumed her cool and businesslike expression.
“Bruce. Come into the office—please,” she said.
Bruce’s reaction was immediate; he leaped away from Chadbourne as if he had been touched with a hot poker. Francie was grieved by this. She felt that though she understood his behavior, it was a pity that he should find
it necessary to jump—like a trained dog, she thought resentfully—at the voice of his employer. It just wasn’t right. She feels she owns him already, thought Francie. She wondered at his patience.
“Oh?” he said. “Sure. Oh, hello there, Francie. Be back in a minute.” He hurried to the office, into which Mrs. Fredericks had already gone, and the door closed be him.
Chadbourne turned and gave Francie a long, rueful look. She didn’t speak. She looked so miserable that Francie’s heart went out to her. For the moment all discretion was forgotten, and it didn’t matter that she had solemnly sworn to Lucky that evening in Chicago that never, never would she mention the situation to anybody, least of all to Mrs. Fredericks’s daughter.
Francie seized Chadbourne’s hand and pressed it. She said, “You poor kid. I understand how it is.”
“Do you?” Chadbourne repeated doubtfully. She looked confused rather than relieved, but she returned the pressure. “I feel so mixed up,” she muttered, and her voice trailed off.
For an awkward moment neither of them could think of how to carry on, but Francie’s eye lit on the book, and she went over to it. It was one of the old magazines the wardrobe mistress was using for reference in making the cast’s costumes. This gave the girls plenty to talk about in a natural manner, and by the time the office door opened again, everything was normal. Bruce emerged, but there was no sign of Mrs. Fredericks. His first glance as he rejoined the girls was at Chadbourne. He met her gaze with a self-confident little nod.
Chadbourne’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She looked down and riffled the pages of the magazine while Francie looked at her pityingly. How awful to know that your mother was trying so callously to arrange a marriage for you—to know how little your mother thought of your chances to marry except with the dowry of a business and a lot of string-pulling! That was the worst of it: and what on earth would Lottie Fredericks say when she realized that Francie was going to mix up her plans? And then suddenly the thought struck Francie: were they Chad’s dreams, too, as well as Lottie’s plans? Watching Chad, Francie wondered what hurt her more—being bargained over, or love for Bruce. She hoped with all her heart that it could be settled soon, with everything in the open.
“How are you, beautiful?” Bruce said to Francie. His voice was recaptured by this time and he was his old slightly impertinent self. As her eyes met his she thrilled to think that this good-looking man was in love with her. No matter how bad a mix-up it was, she wouldn’t have wanted it to be any other way, she decided; not if it meant letting him go.
They were in the middle of a discussion about the necessity of more and more rehearsals as the great performance drew near when a man came in from the street and interrupted them. He greeted Lucky like one who had known him a long time.
“This is George Morris,” said Bruce, introducing him to the girls, “a big noise from the big city, aren’t you, George?”
Mr. Morris laughed deprecatingly, and Francie wondered how on earth he happened to be so friendly with Bruce. He wasn’t a contemporary, quite clearly; in Francie’s opinion he was definitely old, nearly as old as Pop. He wasn’t a good-looking man, either. She had a bored impression that he possessed a rather paunchy figure, and she noticed his rimless eyeglasses, and then she lost all interest. But Lucky continued to make a fuss over him, and she gathered from Lucky’s attitude, correctly as matters were to develop, that Mr. Morris was either a customer or likely to become one in the near future. As it was no time to interfere with the lawful business of Fredericks & Worpels with idle chat about amateur dramatics, she made her excuses and took her leave.
It was to be a harrowing day altogether, she decided with resignation when toward closing time she saw Anne Clark approaching. Now and then during the day Francie had wondered just how she was going to behave when she saw Mrs. Clark. Would it be in order to say something that indicated she was aware of the state of affairs? Well, whether or not it was in order, she now decided in a flash, it was simply impossible: she just wouldn’t be able to do it. She was too embarrassed. It was up to Mrs. Clark herself to make the first move, and even then it was embarrassing.… So she simply stiffened where she stood and waited, wide-eyed, to see what might happen.
Nothing happened. Anne Clark’s behavior was perfectly normal. She didn’t seem to notice that Francie’s wasn’t, for one thing; she asked cheerfully about the journey and then started to talk about what had happened in the shop during the owner’s absence. Florence Ryan joined them and in a minute or two they were all talking about the business, and then Francie put the kettle on, and Anne brought a box of cookies out of her shopping bag, and they were soon having tea just the way they always did at least three times during the week. But try as she would, Francie couldn’t be quite ordinary in her behavior. When she thought Mrs. Clark wasn’t looking, she sat munching a cookie, studying that quiet face that she had grown to know so well and to admire, wondering now if she had been wrong to admire it so much. Anne Clark was going to be her stepmother—or could Glenn have been wrong? How on earth was she ever to get used to it, and what would it mean to her life?
Anne Clark caught her at it, at least Francie was pretty sure she did. She turned to reach out for the teapot and saw the girl’s eyes fixed on her face. It seemed to Francie, confused as she was, that there was a twinkle in Mrs. Clark’s own eyes for just a second, a hint of a smile on her lips. But it might have been imagination. At any rate, she herself had been very rude to stare. She jumped up and went to check on the kettle, and the ladies continued to talk, comfortably and desultorily, about the everyday affairs of Jefferson.
CHAPTER 15
There is nothing quite like the first night of a play, even when it’s an amateur production such as the Jefferson Dramatic Society’s performance of Charley’s Aunt. Moreover, there’s nothing even then as exciting as the feeling that reigns backstage before activity begins. That’s what Francie thought as she wandered through the dressing rooms and onto the stage about an hour before the curtain was due to rise (though everyone knew it wouldn’t go up on the dot, or even twenty minutes later). She had been in on plenty of productions in her time. She was pleased with the sets, and had spent hours researching the period so that they would be just right. Slightly dramatic, slightly overemphasized; just right for the stage. Her friend Penny, as a student of stage directing, had given her the entree, in New York, to a lot of little-theater sort of experimenting without which the stage world couldn’t develop as fast as it has done in America.
She was alone, by deliberate choice. The busy everyday chatter of Chadbourne’s zoo would have been just a little too much that night, she felt, and at the last minute she decided not to go and share the cold supper they were eating at the Fredericks house. Francie had something on her mind, though she didn’t admit it. She had heard that morning from Cousin Biddy that Glenn was back at his mother’s house with his new fiancée, who had come to inspect and to be inspected. Biddy had already met her, and was on the telephone the minute she came home, full of details.
“She’s a pretty girl, but I don’t know,” Biddy had said.
Francie had asked what she meant by “I don’t know.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Biddy said again. “She looks a little stand-offish. She never said a word the whole time I stood there in front of the Stop ’n’ Shop talking to Glenn. Not very polite, I thought.”
Francie reflected that this was an experience Biddy must often undergo and that Glenn’s girl friend could hardly be blamed for a natural reaction.
“They’ll probably be in to see the great performance tonight,” continued Biddy, “though Glenn didn’t seem quite sure. Waiting on her to make up her mind most likely. He was asking about it, and I told him you had a part.”
“Not much of a part,” said Francie.
“Still, you’re in it,” and so are some of his other old friends, and I think he’ll be along if he can persuade that bad-tempered girl.”
Francie said, “I don’t
know that I’d be terribly anxious to go and look at an amateur show in a new town if it were me. What’s her name, Cousin Biddy?”
Biddy said it was Valerie Potts.
An obliging stagehand turned up the lights on the stage when Francie asked him to, so that she could check up on the stage set for Act One. It looked pretty good, she decided, though it hardly lived up to the directions in the book. If the truth were known, it didn’t give quite faithfully the required luxurious effect of a wealthy young undergraduate’s chambers at Oxford at the turn of the century. According to the text, Jack Chesney’s rooms should be “comfortably furnished with well-worn reproduction antique furniture.” The stage didn’t look like that. There was rather a hint of New Art about it. Somehow most of the people who had been willing to lend their chairs and tables to the society belonged to the unpainted white-wood school of interior decoration. But it didn’t matter, Francie reflected: the chances of many of the audience having seen actual rooms at Oxford were slight. At any rate, that desk of Lucky Munson’s was just right. She went over to admire it at close quarters, as she had often done before. It did a lot for the set, and it was even mentioned in the stage directions. The curtain was to rise on “Jack discovered sprawling … unlit pipe in mouth, feet on writing table,” and she hoped this wouldn’t mean that the desk might be scratched or otherwise damaged, perhaps by too heavy feet. But Bruce himself was playing Jack, and no doubt he would be especially careful of his own property.
Idly she amused herself by examining her favorite feature of the piece of furniture, its so-called secret drawers that were found behind the ordinary compartments across the high face. Mrs. Fredericks had explained to her once when she was admiring it that these little hidden drawers were a common feature of desks that had been made at the time this one was—or rather, at the time when the original of this had been designed. Secret drawers were a passion with cabinetmakers of the period, Mrs. Fredericks said; they slipped them in everywhere possible.