Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 21

  He turned his head and shifted the brim of his hat so he could press his lips to her forehead. “Margot,” he said. His voice had gone husky in that way that made something come alive deep in her belly. “Sweetheart. We should talk things through.”

  “I know.” She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him, soap, aftershave, the thick wool of the borrowed coat. “This is just so nice, this one moment. I wish we didn’t have to worry about what comes next.”

  He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so he could kiss her mouth. He did this firmly, demandingly, and her body seemed to melt against him of its own volition. “Tired of waiting,” he whispered against her lips and kissed her again.

  Breathless, she pulled back, but just a little. “Why should we wait, Frank? We can find a house, move into it together—”

  His hand came up, his good hand, and stopped her lips with two fingers. “Don’t. Don’t even suggest it. It’s not right.”

  Gently, she pushed his hand away, saying with asperity, “I’m not a conventional woman, Frank. You know that already.”

  “You’re also not some silly film actress whose reputation doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  He grinned down at her, looking so handsome in the starlight she could have wept with wanting him. “You do care,” he said. “You have to, Margot. And so does your family.”

  She wriggled her shoulders, wanting to deny it, but knowing he was right. She said, after a moment, “All right, then. What do we do? I can’t compromise my principles just because I want—” A small laugh bubbled in her throat, and she finished in a throaty whisper, “Just because I really, really want to go to bed with you!”

  For long moments after that, neither of them could speak. They were embracing and laughing at the same time, and neither had much breath for speaking. At last Margot pulled back. “It’s getting colder,” she said. “My toes are freezing.”

  He kept one arm around her as they turned to walk back. She adjusted her hat, which had been knocked askew, and smoothed the ruffled wings of her hair with her fingers.

  Frank said, “You haven’t told me how the Women and Infants Clinic is coming along.” She heard the caution in his voice, felt it in the slight tension of his arm around her waist. He was trying to make a start to the conversation they needed to have.

  “It will open in February,” she said. “Sarah Church is working there, arranging things. She’s doing excellent work.” She kept her eyes down, watching the icy pavement as they passed the tower and started across the street to Benedict Hall.

  “Did Mrs. Sanger come to Seattle?”

  It was a question freighted with implication. It was what lay between them, their essential disagreement as to how women’s freedoms should be addressed.

  Margot paused on the wide porch, just inside the circle of light cast by the windows, and looked up to meet Frank’s eyes. She said simply, “She did come, Frank. She was awful.”

  He was startled into laughter. “Margot! I thought you admired her!”

  She sighed and took a last look out into the starry darkness. “Oh, Frank. I should have known, I suppose, from her newsletter, but I thought people were misinterpreting her. That she meant something much more subtle. The way she spoke to Sarah, the way she talked about which populations most needed to curb their birth rate—it was ghastly. I had to apologize to Sarah for bringing Mrs. Sanger there, for putting her through that.”

  Frank bent, and kissed her cheek. “I’m sure Sarah knows you don’t agree with that sort of nonsense.”

  “I made sure of that.” Margot turned to the door, and Frank reached for the latch. “But, Frank,” she said, “I’m still going to offer birth control services at the clinic. Education is the only hope those women have.”

  He stopped, his hand already on the door. His eyes were steady, very blue, full of affection. “I’m not good at putting things into words, Margot.”

  “You’re not worried about your own reputation, Frank?”

  “No.” He took his hand from the latch and turned to lean his back against the door. “No, it’s not that.”

  “Surely you don’t think this information should be denied to women.”

  His mouth worked a little, twisting, quirking at one corner. “It’s not that exactly. It’s—” He made a frustrated gesture with his left hand, a movement that looked so natural it was hard to remember the hand was artificial. “Things are changing so fast. A man can’t keep up.” He bent to kiss her forehead. “I’m still just a cowboy, I guess.”

  “I may not be the right woman for you,” she said, her heart swelling with a potent mix of longing and misery and love.

  “Have to be,” he said. He pulled the door open before she could ask him what that meant.

  CHAPTER 17

  At breakfast, when everyone was served, Blake came into the dining room and stood at the end of the table. “Miss Allison, would you care to accompany me to the train to meet your parents?”

  She felt every eye upon her and didn’t dare refuse. She said, “Yes, thank you, Blake,” in a voice so small she was surprised he could hear her.

  He nodded. “Very good, miss.” He refilled several empty coffee cups and carried the pot out of the dining room.

  Ramona said, “We were going to go Christmas shopping, weren’t we, Allison?” in a bright tone. “Perhaps we’ll postpone, so your mother can go as well. What do you think, Mother Benedict?”

  Aunt Edith was staring at the empty chair on her right hand. Uncle Dickson prompted, “Edith?”

  She started and said, “What? I’m sorry, did someone speak to me?”

  Ramona repeated her suggestion. Aunt Edith turned her pale blue eyes to Allison. “Adelaide,” she said.

  Allison felt a rush of shame for her, that she should be so confused. She was about to correct her, but Aunt Edith went on. “Adelaide is such a strange woman. She came from a bad family, didn’t she, dear?” Her gaze shifted to her husband at the far end of the table. “Do you remember? Her father was horrid, all those mistresses, and—”

  “Now, Edith,” Dickson said hastily.

  Ramona said, “We shouldn’t speak so about Allison’s grandfather.”

  Allison, who had been staring miserably at the stack of griddle cakes on her plate—one of the things Hattie did well—glanced up at Ramona. “It’s all right, Cousin Ramona. My mother told me about it.”

  Before anyone could alter the course of the conversation, Edith said, “Oh, yes, and he used to take these women out in public, to the theater and to restaurants. It made his wife furious, and her parents threatened to sue. It was a dreadful scandal. Everyone talked about it.”

  An embarrassed silence followed this elaboration of the tale, filled only by the scraping of knives and forks, the rustle of napkins, and the sounds of coffee being drunk. Allison took up her own knife and fork and began the process of slicing her griddle cakes into slivers. The slivers fell from the stack, one by one, to dissolve into nothingness in a pool of warm maple syrup.

  She had used the spoon the night before, though there wasn’t much in her stomach to eject. She had done her best just the same, then spent a quarter of an hour examining herself in the mirror. She saw, with a stab of panic, that her hips had swelled to twice their usual size. Her bosom stretched the lace border of her chemise, and her thighs had taken on enormous and humiliating proportions. She took the plaid frock out of the wardrobe and tried to put it on. It was so tight she couldn’t fasten it.

  She wished she could get rid of it. She even took scissors from the dressing table drawer, thinking she would cut the dress into ribbons, slip it out of the house and into the burn barrel. The trouble was that Ruby would know if the dress disappeared. Ruby knew more about her wardrobe, about the stacks of sweaters and lingerie and stockings that had come with her from San Francisco, than she did herself.

  And so, before accompanying Blake to the station, she tried on four dres
ses to find the largest. The one she settled on had a dropped waistline and a gathered skirt, with a narrow belt that fit just at the top of her hips. She cinched this firmly, and fastened her brassiere in its tightest hooks. Over everything she wore a long black sweater. She hardly ever wore the thing, a baggy creation with painted wooden buttons, but it covered her from shoulders to thighs.

  She didn’t feel grand and grown-up, riding in the back of the Essex, as she had done the day before. She felt like a dog about to be whipped. When Blake spoke to her, she gave monosyllabic responses, and he was soon as silent as she was. The Christmas decorations seemed to have proliferated from the day before, every front door festooned with greenery, every window boasting red and green and blue lights, but the pleasure they had given her turned to dread. There were just two weeks left until Christmas, and she feared her parents meant to stay the whole time.

  Or perhaps they meant to drag her back to San Francisco. As much as she hadn’t wanted to come to Seattle, now she wanted, with all her heart, to stay in Benedict Hall. But when her mother saw how fat she had gotten, how much she had let herself go, she supposed she would want her home in a trice, where she could once again bend her critical eye over every detail of her daughter’s appearance and behavior.

  She followed Blake into the station, shrinking into the baggy black sweater. The train was a bit late, and Blake said, “Can I fetch you something while we wait, Miss Allison? I believe they sell Coca-Cola at that kiosk in the corner.”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Are you feeling all right, miss?”

  She looked up, seeing the concern in his dark eyes and in the drawing together of his thick white eyebrows. A servant, she reminded herself. Not a friend. Indeed, she had no friends. “I’m fine,” she said. She feared she had sounded curt, or imperious, but Blake’s face showed only sympathy and kindness. She felt a betraying tremble in her lips and a stinging in her eyes. She folded her arms tightly around herself and glared out into the cold, bright day.

  It gave her an odd feeling to watch her parents come into the station. They could have been strangers, a couple she had never seen before. Her father was stocky and rather worn-looking, his hair more gray than she remembered, the pouches under his eyes more pronounced. Her mother looked small and faded, lost in the thick folds of her mink coat. Her neck was corded and hollow beneath her sharp chin. Her face powder accentuated the wrinkles bracketing her eyes and mouth. The hand she extended so languidly felt like bird bones inside its kid leather glove.

  They touched their cheeks to hers. Her father said, “How are you, Allison?”

  Her mother, pulling back from the brief embrace, eyed her narrowly. “That awful sweater, Allison. Surely you have something better to wear.”

  Allison said in resigned fashion, “Hello, Papa. Mother.” And then, awkwardly, “This is Blake. Uncle Dickson’s butler.”

  “You’re the driver?” her father asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Blake answered and tipped his cap to them. “If you will give me your luggage tags, sir, I’ll fetch the bags.”

  Adelaide dug in her handbag for the tags. As Blake took them from her gloved fingers, she said, sharply, “Be careful with the bandbox. The lid is loose.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Blake touched his cap again before he crossed the marble floor toward the luggage carts, where the Pullman porters were unloading bags and trunks.

  Adelaide clicked her tongue. “I don’t know why Dickson has to employ coloreds,” she said. “There are so many people looking for work these days.”

  Allison said, “They’re very good, Mother,” though she dreaded her mother’s thoughts on Hattie’s cooking.

  “That’s not the point, is it, Allison? It’s the way it looks. And this one walks with a cane.”

  Allison was about to reply, to defend him, but Blake was already limping back toward them, somehow managing his cane and two valises, the bandbox tucked securely under his arm.

  Papa stepped forward and took one of the valises, and Blake nodded his thanks. “This way, please, Mr. Benedict,” he said and led them all out of the station to the car.

  The car, at least, met with Adelaide’s approval. She settled onto the plush seat, her mink spilling around her, and said, “We should have one of these, Henry. A closed sedan. So much warmer, and no wind.”

  Her husband made a noncommittal sound and gazed out the windows at the streets of Seattle. “I expected rain,” he said.

  No one had a response to this. Blake drove at his usual deliberate pace, turning left on Broadway, rolling slowly up Aloha. Adelaide tapped her foot with impatience. “Can’t we go any faster? Surely everyone’s waiting for us,” she said.

  Allison took pleasure in saying, “Oh, no, Mother. Everyone is busy. Cousin Margot is at the hospital, and Uncle Dickson and Dick are at the office. Cousin Ramona is working on menus with the cook, and Aunt Edith is resting.” The sideways twist of her mother’s lips, her short, exasperated snort, gave Allison a little rush of satisfaction.

  In the mirror she caught a glimpse of Blake’s face. Though his features were impassive, his eyes, ever so briefly, met hers before they flicked away. Feeling exposed, she turned her head to gaze out at the mansions of Fourteenth Avenue.

  Dinner at Benedict Hall, that night in December, felt to Allison like one of the minefields she had read about, where the doughboys hardly knew where they dared put their feet, and if they made a mistake they got blown to bits. Her mother, stiff and wary in one of the dark embroidered gowns she had bought in Paris, and with her hair pinned up in elaborate loops, tried to engage Aunt Edith over their glasses of sherry. Cousin Ramona did her best to smooth the conversational path, but there were long silences between the women, in which Adelaide looked offended, Aunt Edith looked vague, and poor Ramona looked desperate.

  Papa had accepted a single glass of whisky, to be sociable, he said. Speaking slightly too loudly, he talked business with Uncle Dickson and Cousin Dick, and asked blunt questions about what Dickson saw in the future. Allison could see Uncle Dickson choosing his words carefully, trying to avoid criticizing while still offering insights into what he expected from the decade. “Prices are rising too fast, Henry,” he said. “I don’t trust it.”

  Her father objected. “Hell, no, Dickson. We’re coming out of a depression, the aftermath of the war. Now is the time to take our profits, put them in the stock market so they can grow without our having to work so hard.”

  “Hmm. You could be right, but I have some concerns about the viability of the market.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” Henry exclaimed, waving his glass.

  Throughout, Allison perched on one of the straight chairs, a glass of lemonade held carefully in both hands. Her mother had frowned when she saw it and snapped, “What’s that, Allison? What are you drinking?”

  Blake, who had served it to Allison on a small tray, said with dignity, “If you’ll permit me, Mrs. Benedict. Our cook makes lemonade especially for Miss Allison.”

  Allison said, “Thank you, Blake.” Blake inclined his head and limped out of the room with the empty tray.

  Adelaide said in an undertone, “I hope you haven’t gotten used to special treatment, Allison.” Allison felt Ramona’s eyes on her and didn’t answer. She did, however, drink the entire glass of lemonade before they all went in to dinner.

  Cousin Margot reached home barely in time to change. Major Parrish was already there, looking handsome in a black dinner jacket. Margot hurried down the staircase and into the dining room just as they were all taking their seats. Uncle Dickson held Adelaide’s chair for her, and Papa, taking the cue, held Aunt Edith’s, though he looked awkward doing it. Blake stood inside the door, watching as the newly hired maid, a plump middle-aged woman in a black dress and a professional-looking white apron, filled water tumblers. Cousin Margot slipped into her chair, saying, “Hello, Aunt Adelaide, Uncle Henry. I’m sure Ramona has made you feel welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here whe
n you arrived.”

  Everyone murmured vague courtesies, and Leona came in with the soup tureen. She, too, wore a frilly white apron, though she had no black dress. Allison kept her head down, but she watched her mother from beneath her brows. Adelaide was assessing everything, she could see. She would take note of Leona’s lack of uniform. She would probably count the silver place settings and make guesses at how much the candelabra cost. Allison saw her eyes sweep over the arrangement of Christmas greenery on the side table, and prayed she wouldn’t say anything. Cousin Ramona had lamented the lack of flowers at this cold season, but had nevertheless done a pretty job with sprays of cedar and tiny scarlet berries cut from the shrubs in the garden.

  The new maid, called Thelma, ladled soup from the tureen as Leona held it for her. She filled every bowl except the one at Aunt Edith’s right. She paused behind the empty chair, the ladle in her hand. Leona had already placed the tureen on the sideboard. Blake cleared his throat, beckoned to Thelma, then led both maids back out into the corridor. Allison saw her mother look at the vacant place, the soup bowl resting, empty, on the charger. Adelaide said, “Are we waiting for someone?”

  Allison had to avert her face to hide the laugh threatening to burst from her lips. She saw that Margot was watching her, and her cheeks flamed with sudden shame, but it was too late to save the moment. Ramona, trying as always to put a brave face on every situation, said, “Mother Benedict likes to keep Preston’s place there, Aunt Adelaide. It comforts her.”

  Allison kept her eyes down, but she was sure her mother was embarrassed. She should have warned her about the empty place, of course. It didn’t seem to matter much. It was only another skirmish in their prolonged conflict.

  It wasn’t even the first one of the day. She had gone into the bedroom prepared for her parents and found her mother gazing disconsolately into the mirror and stroking her abdomen. Allison had said, in imitation of Adelaide’s frequent plaint, “You’ve gained weight, Mother.” She added, in her sweetest tone, “It looks good on you.”