Duet for Three Hands (8 page)

He isn’t a Bellmont, Whit thought. And he prayed he never would be.

A
fter everyone
else retired for the night, Whit sat at the kitchen table, eating a piece of Cassie’s apple pie and gazing at a sliver of moon framed in the window. He was about to take his last bite when Nate came through the door, nodding politely at him.

“Evening,” Whit said, feeling nervous.

Nate went to the butler’s pantry and came out with a glass of milk and a piece of pie. “Your mother said to help myself.” Nate sat across from him at the wooden table.

“Sure.” Whitmore moved his fork around his now empty plate. Looking up, he saw Nate watching him, a crease between his dark eyebrows.

“Your mother tells me you row across the lake every day.”

“Yep. I’m trying to get stronger.”

“Why’s that?”

“Might need to protect someone someday.”

Nate nodded and continued gazing at him, as if there were words written on Whitmore’s forehead. “You ever fish in the lake?”

“Sometimes. They stock it every spring. Catfish mostly.”

“In Maine everyone fishes or catches lobster. For a living. Out in boats.”

Whitmore wasn’t sure what to say, so he just nodded his head and then looked back at his pie.

“You want to go tomorrow morning? Before breakfast?”

“I’d like that, sure.” Whitmore picked up his plate and took it to the sink, trying to hide the pleasure he felt. “I’ll get us some night crawlers before I go to bed.”

S
lightly before dawn
, at the lake’s shore, they strung the fat, wiggly night crawlers on hooks and then dangled their poles from the edge of the Bellmonts’ pier. The morning air had the crisp, cool feel of autumn. Occasionally a fish jumped, causing ripples in the smooth water.

“Are you really famous?” Whit asked. His mother always told him to ask someone a question if you wanted to start a conversation.

“In certain circles, I suppose. That’s not why I do it, though.”

“What do you mean?” Whitmore sat still, waiting for the answer. He wanted to hear every word, to memorize it for later because he was about to hear something important, of this he felt certain.

“I love to play. The pay and the accolades are gratifying, but all that is not a good enough reason to work as hard as I do.”

Whitmore remained quiet, thinking. “Why do you work as hard as you do?”

“Ah, well, that’s simply pure love. I love to play music. It’s all I’ve wanted, until recently.”

“I love to draw and paint. I could do it all day and not get tired. Is that how it is for you?”

Nate looked over at him, his eyes serious now but not unkind. “Most of the time.”

“Father says art’s ridiculous. No money in it.”

“Not necessarily true, but yes, it can be difficult. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.”

“Yeah, yeah, it doesn’t mean that.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, holding their poles, the dappled October light between the scarlet and yellow leaves in the oaks that surrounded the lake. “I’d like to capture the way the light is this morning, someday, in my paintings.”

“Keep painting. You will.” Nate’s line lurched. “Ha! Got one.”

After Whit also caught one of the prehistoric-looking catfish, they agreed they were hungry and ready for breakfast. They gutted and cleaned the fish, carefully scooping the remains into a pail at the side of the lake, and headed toward the house, their feet crunching in the thick layer of fallen pine needles the color of brown bread. Nate stopped when they came to the rose garden. The last of the season’s blooms, reduced to rosehips and a few straggling petals, fluttered in the breeze. Below each bush, like injured soldiers scattered on a battlefield, fallen petals carpeted the ground.

“Mother keeps the rosehips for the birds instead of cutting the dead blooms. But she won’t like how untidy the ground looks.” Whitmore knelt and picked up one of the stray petals. “She thinks the gardener, Fred Wilder, is lazy. She won’t get rid of him though. Says he has a family to feed.”

“Your mother’s a kind woman.”

“And gentle.”

“Her generous spirit reminds me of my father.”

He sighed, thinking of Father. What would it be like to have that kind of father? Whit would never know, of course.

Nate put his arm around Whit, briefly, in an almost embrace. “I realize, of course, I’m not your father. But perhaps I could be someone you rely upon. A confidant. A champion of sorts.”

Whit glanced over at him, but Nate didn’t meet his gaze. There was a red flush on the older man’s cheekbones. “Thanks. Yes. I’d like that.” Whit dropped the petal from his fingers. It cascaded to the ground, joining her fallen sisters.

“We’re kindred spirits, you and I.”

“Kindred spirits?” asked Whit.

“We understand one another. Both of us artists, for example.”

“Right. We’re both artists.” His throat ached with pride. Nate considered him a kindred spirit and a friend. How was it possible that this man had come and filled an empty portion of his heart in less than twenty-four hours? How Frances had gotten this man to agree to marry her he could not say. But it didn’t matter. Nate was here now. He would be theirs from now on. Family.

“Come on, let’s eat,” said Nate. “I’m ravenous.”

“Ravenous. That’s a Jeselle-type word.”

“That right?”

“Mother’s always teaching her new words, and Jeselle spends all day using them in a sentence.”

They arrived at the house and stomped the mud from their boots before they walked into the kitchen. “You want me to fry these up for breakfast?” Nate asked.

“Cassie won’t allow that.”

Nathaniel grinned, looking suddenly like a boy. “We’ll clean up after ourselves. She’ll never know. I’m not afraid of Cassie.”

“Well, I am. And you should be, too.”

Just then Cassie came out of the butler’s pantry. “Y’all should be afraid.”

“Ah, we’ve been caught,” said Nate.

“This is my kitchen. No one, and I mean no one, messes with my kitchen.

Cassie seemed different around Nate. What was it exactly? Indulgence, like he was a naughty but loveable puppy. Her words were stern, but her eyes sparkled as if amused. Had Nate charmed even Cassie?

“Sit down.” She pointed at the table. “I’ll fry ’em up for you.”

While Cassie melted lard in a frying pan and coated the fish with cornmeal, Nate sipped coffee, gazing out at the garden from the breakfast-nook window. Whit pulled out his sketchbook. Using his new charcoal, he sketched Nate’s profile using quick darts and then smearing the lines with his fingers. The room filled with the aroma of grease and frying fish.

Capture the moment, Whit told himself, so that he might have it later to pull out and remember the peace he felt.

Kindred spirits.
Was there anything better than this? What had Jes said to him once? Love is all there is and all there ever will be. Surely she was correct.

F
rom Jeselle Thorton’s journal
.

M
arch 2
, 1929

S
eeking truth
, I listen behind closed doors. I peer between cracks.

I capture memories with words.

Six years old, dust rag in my hand, I stood behind the door to the study watching Mrs. Bellmont teach Whit to read.

Sensing my presence, her face in the soft light from the lamp went still. “Jes, are you there?”

I came out from behind the door, standing before her, my eyes turned downward.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. My chores.”

“Look at me, Jes.”

I lifted my head. She put down her pencil and peered at me, those gray eyes of hers kind, discerning. “You want to study here with us?”

I nodded, unable to utter my greatest desire. To give a desire words makes it real and therefore subject to ridicule, rejection, heartbreak. I was careful then, before education rendered me bold. Before education gave me a voice.

She rose from the desk, striding to the kitchen with a purposeful gait reserved for times when Frank Bellmont was not present. I hovered behind the door, peering through the crack.

It was canning day. Steam and the sweet smell of cooked peaches. Mama peeled the fruit’s skin at the sink with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Sinewy strength.

“Cassie, Jeselle wants to study with us. I could teach her right alongside Whit.”

Mama took her hands out of the steaming bowl, bits of peach skin clinging to her fingers. Her eyebrows went up, causing two creases in the middle of her forehead as she wiped her hands on the front of her apron. I held my breath, sure she’d say no, that I should be learning how to help with the chores instead of schooling.

“What about Mr. Bellmont? No harm can come to you because of this. I can’t have that.”

“He won’t know,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

“Fine, then.” She made a little nod with her head and then turned away, back to peeling the hot flesh of peaches. When Mrs. Bellmont turned to leave, a wide smile on her pretty face, she did not see Mama fall to her knees with her hands grasping the sink as she bowed her head, praying gratitude. But I did. I will never forget.

Later, when I was eight, Mr. Bellmont discovered Mrs. Bellmont and me with our heads together over an open book. Mrs. Bellmont paid dearly for it with bumps and bruises, but she would not stop. Her eye still black from his fist, she said to me, voice so soft I had to lean close to hear her, “Here’s something you must know, Jeselle, given your particular situation on this earth. There will be many times in your life you’ll have to pretend to be something you’re not, just to keep peace. But make no mistake, there are still ways to do what you want, what you believe is right. You have to be brave, though. Some things must be done in secret. Behind closed doors.” And so we did, the teacher and the student in covert alliance for my education.

And what has this clandestine education given me? We cannot measure it, capture it—even with words. I tried to explain it to Mama once so that she might be convinced to let Mrs. Bellmont teach her to read. But she would have none of it, said she’s too old to learn to read and that if God had wanted her to, he would’ve arranged it when she was a child. She tells herself that kind of thing. It keeps her from going crazy with remorse and anger. If only she understood that reading leads to freedom. You can go anywhere or learn anything inside a book. You are liberated inside those words, free to live another’s life.