The Accursed (25 page)

This was a prim statement of Josiah’s own, in which he could hear a faint echo of his grandfather Winslow.

“Wilhelmina might have known, you know—about Annabel.”

“What about Annabel?”

“She might have known, or suspected—something. She has behaved very strangely, very stiffly and guiltily, since—that day.”

At this moment the tall doors leading to a rear, flagstone terrace of the drawing room were flung open, and Todd whom no one had known had crept outside, now came in, brashly; humming and singing to himself as if he were alone, and quite ignoring his cousin Josiah. Lenora tensed, as if awaiting a crash of her elegant tea-table; but seemed to take no notice as the glittery-eyed boy snatched at the remaining crustless sandwiches and little cakes. Todd then flung himself daringly into the divan beside his glowering father, and chewed noisily, all the while loudly humming “Zip Coon” and stroking an imaginary, immense belly, in mockery of Copplestone.

Neutral of expression, his posture now rigid, Copplestone stared fixedly before him, at Josiah, and gave no sign of his son’s intrusive presence. When Josiah greeted Todd, Todd only just nodded, without a glance at his cousin, and continued eating.

He is accursed. But he has always been. Yet, he is my cousin, and I love him.

Badly Josiah wished he’d left Wheatsheaf a few minutes before, to have escaped Todd. Now, he feared a sudden outburst of his uncle’s temper, and the possibility of Copplestone “disciplining” Todd.

Since the outing in Crosswicks Forest months before, Todd’s skin had become noticeably darkened from the sun, for he spent a good deal of time outdoors and now looked, as his sister said, like a “Red Indian.” He had always had a playful/feral manner but lately, he behaved as if his clothing, or perhaps his skin, chafed him. Clearly he’d been upset by Annabel’s abrupt disappearance, as by his relatives’ reaction to it; he was both noisier than usual, yet at times quieter—prattling to himself, then lapsing into stony muteness during which times, to his mother’s distress and his father’s rage, he appeared to be deaf as well as mute. (It was known to Josiah that his nephew hadn’t uttered a coherent sentence since that Saturday morning in June, though his parents would not speak of it.) His appetite had grown so erratic, he ate only at wayward, unexpected times, preferring to feed himself in the kitchen, to the alarm of the cook. Though he’d been many times forbidden to leave Wheatsheaf unaccompanied, Todd often disappeared for baffling periods of time as if into “thin air”; then, he reappeared, with no explanation. More than once, his parents had been on the brink of alerting the Princeton police, for Todd could be found nowhere; nor did he seem to be at Crosswicks, or any other house in the neighborhood, when worried calls were made. The domestic staffs at Wheatsheaf, Crosswicks, and elsewhere whispered of Todd as a
demon;
and there were several older women servants who, when they encountered Todd, rapidly made motions in the air of an old German
Hexenbanner
.

Josiah’s aunt Lenora was trying gamely to continue speaking with him, as if nothing were wrong, but Josiah was distracted by a new prank of Todd’s—for Todd had produced an old cap of Josiah’s which Josiah had not seen in years, and had set it atop his spiky hair at a rakish angle. When Todd stood, saluting Josiah in a mocking way, Josiah said sharply, “That’s enough, Todd.” He was as much a boy as to snatch the hat from his young cousin, at the risk of overexciting Todd, but Todd only just looked hurt, and reproachful; and now began to whistle “Zip Coon” in a particularly high-pitched tone, that at last provoked his father to rise from the divan, seize hold of his antic son, and begin cuffing and boxing him about the head, chuckling angrily: “Have I not told you and told you, Todd—
you must not upset your mother
.”

Josiah at once intervened, managing to separate father and son; but suffering one or two of Copplestone’s blows to his own face; as Todd had already been injured, it seemed, for his nose was bleeding, and his wail was loud as an infant’s. Muttering still, and loudly panting, Copplestone reached around Josiah to seize Todd again, and give him a final violent shake, before turning on his heel to storm out of the room.

During these upsetting seconds Lenora remained sitting very straight in her chair, presiding over her tiny gleaming kingdom of tea things, and gently chiding her son: “You see, Todd, you have aggravated your father again. God have mercy on us all, if his wrath does not abate.”

COME TO TEA
, Josiah! I have no news—but feel the need to speak to you of what has happened to alter all our lives.

Since June, Josiah had avoided Pembroke, which was Wilhelmina’s family home, on Campbelton Circle, though the FitzRandolphs had several times invited him to dinner, and Wilhelmina to tea, or to simply “drop by.” And it troubled Josiah, that Princeton gossip conspired to say that poor Wilhelmina was hopelessly in love with him. This Josiah neither believed nor wished to believe, for he was too gentlemanly to wish to hurt anyone; yet had too much pride, to consider “Willy” Burr a suitable mate for himself—for she and Annabel had been so close, for so long, he’d come to think of Willy as a
sister
.

Yet, she continued to invite Josiah, at some expense, he thought, to her own pride. And he felt sympathy for her, and a wish to make amends to her, and so accepted.

Pembroke, one of the smaller and less distinguished of the larger West End homes, was razed in the 1940s, to make way for newer houses; at this time, it was a striking specimen of the Tudor style, as it was generally copied in America, with an impressive front door boasting original brass rim locks, brought from London; a high-ceilinged foyer and spiral staircase leading to the upper floors; a rather dark interior, paneled in walnut; but, at the rear, a charming little garden or breakfast room to which Josiah was led by Wilhelmina herself, who’d answered the door when he rang the bell. In this room, which was filled with lushly flowering plants and small fruit-bearing trees, as well as Egyptian vases containing remarkably large and beautiful feathers, Willy appeared to have been reading, on a comfortable rattan couch, for there lay a slender, opened volume of poetry. Josiah asked what it was and Willy said, “I’m not sure, Josiah! I have been reading, and rereading, and I have vivid
sensations
—but scarcely know what to think.” Josiah took up the small book:
Poems
. Its author he’d never heard of: Emily Dickinson.

“Josiah! Please take a seat. It has been
so long
.”

Wilhelmina spoke gaily and with no trace of reproach, only her usual frank friendliness and dimpled smile.

Quite surprising Josiah by offering him a cigarette out of a Turkish morocco miniature case which he declined, with the excuse that he only smoked in the evenings, after dinner; and then, only cigars.

“Why then, I hope you will not mind if I smoke. For I find, it calms my nerves.” Wilhelmina spoke with a slight betrayal of breathlessness, lighting a cigarette with a tiny gilt-trimmed match. Josiah had never seen any West End woman, of any age, smoke a cigarette before, and was quite fascinated by this new, unexpected behavior of his sister’s friend.

“Tell me, Willy—did Annabel smoke?”

“Annabel! Of course not. You would have known it, if she had.”

Willy was wearing casual clothes, in fact a pair of those Turkish trousers which Josiah’s aunt deplored, that looked like pajamas; but over this she wore a middy-blouse and an attractive quilted duster, or housecoat. High on her bosom she’d pinned a lady’s watch. Her day shoes were of dark leather, and her stockings of silk, Josiah saw when by chance he glanced at her ankles.

It was whispered of Wilhelmina Burr that she cared not for the fashionable extremes of corsetry, and so could boast nothing like a Gibson Girl figure; far from being wasp-waisted, like her more stylish contemporaries, Willy struck the eye as solid, sturdy; a healthy girl, with no subterfuge. Yet, it seemed that Willy had spent more time than usual at her toilet that day, for her thick, often unruly dark hair was now smoothly drawn into a pompadour, and affixed with amber combs and pins. It was with a playful air of
dress-up,
rather than feminine affectation, that Willy had tucked a lacy perfumed handkerchief into the V of her middy-blouse, and insinuated a tiny pink tea rose into her hair.

“This smoking is new to you, Willy, isn’t it? And who gave you that fancy cigarette case?”

Willy smiled evasively, tucking the case into a pocket of her Turkish trousers. “A friend.”

“A new friend?”

“Yes. New. And no one you know.”

By her expression, Josiah was prompted to suppose that the gift was from a male admirer. He felt just the slightest prick of jealousy.

Willy murmured: “A new presence in Princeton, a houseguest at Drumthwacket.”

Yet stubbornly, Josiah would make no further inquiry.

Though Willy had hurried to open the front door herself, to prevent its being opened by one of the household staff, she had no choice but to allow the housekeeper to bring in tea, for that lady would have been scandalized if she had not, and might have informed Mrs. Burr. But Willy took a visible pleasure in presiding over the tea service, and pressing upon Josiah the usual sort of fare—cucumber and watercress sandwiches on crustless white bread, and buttered scones, and quince tarts topped with cream. It may have been the radiant heat of the old, silver teapot, or the fumes of steam that rose from Josiah’s cup of Ceylon tea, or the sub-tropical atmosphere of the garden room itself, that caused Josiah to begin to feel warm, and yearning to tear open his stiff-starched shirt collar.

As if she had no pressing reason for having asked Josiah to visit her, Willy spoke in an animated voice of the new Broadway hit, Mr. Belasco’s
The Girl of the Golden West
which she hadn’t yet seen, but wanted very much to see. (Was Willy suggesting that she and Josiah go together?) And there were other, Princeton topics about which Willy spoke, in her open, frank, friendly way, until Josiah, beginning to become restless, intervened to ask if she had heard anything at all—anything—of Annabel; and Willy said, with a look of hurt, that of course she had not—“If I had, I would have told you all immediately. I would have
called
.”

Josiah then asked if Willy could recall anything Annabel might have told her, however slight it might have seemed, about “Axson Mayte.”

Willy said, not quite meeting Josiah’s eye, “I think that’s why I asked you to drop by, Josiah. I may have made a terrible mistake . . .”

“What sort of mistake?”

“Of the man himself, whose name I can’t bring myself to say, Annabel never spoke, to me. Though I’d been hearing news of him, as a new presence in town, befriended by many of our friends and neighbors, and Dr. Wilson; and my mother had got it into her head, he and I must meet.”

“Yes. I’d heard that.”

“But Annabel wasn’t present, at that awkward meeting—a dinner party here, and only ten at the table. In actual words, Annabel said very little about the great change that was coming into her life; but in actions, gestures, and sighs, and sudden outbursts of nervous laughter, she said a great deal. For it was evident to me, on several of our walks, and quiet times together, that Annabel was, if not unhappy, then clearly not
happy,
as she should have been. I’d thought she was feeling some anxiety about marriage to Dabney, whom she really didn’t know very well, or maybe about marriage itself—Annabel was so very sheltered, as you must know. It’s a curious thing, a man who marries must pretend that he has no ‘experience’—a woman who marries in fact has no ‘experience’—in our class, at least. And nothing must be
uttered aloud
.”

Josiah said, slowly, “Annabel was sometimes
too happy
—at her engagement party, for instance. She seemed to have fallen in love with Dabney’s uniform, or some idea of him, rather than
him
. Or maybe she’d fallen in love with our fantasy of what Annabel Slade should be, the most beautiful bride, the most obedient daughter.”

Carefully Willy stubbed out her cigarette, which she’d scarcely smoked, into a little silver bowl.

“Josiah, I think that I let Annabel down. She seemed to want to talk about something, one day when we were walking in Crosswicks Forest, but I—I felt shy about pursuing it, or just too ignorant. Since then, I blame myself every hour.”

Josiah waited, as Willy went on: “She hinted to me that she’d ‘fallen in love and was damn’d’—‘I belong now to another, in body as well as spirit, and no one can save me’—I tried to see how this was in reference to Dabney Bayard, even when I knew it could not be. It was very strange, Dabney seemed to have nothing to do with Annabel’s agitation.”

“And—what? You chose not to hear?”

“I chose not to
understand
.”

“What exactly did Annabel say, can you remember?”

“She was speaking emotionally—not very coherently. She said ‘neither Josiah, nor the dashing Lieutenant, can save me’—something like that. So I knew, I should have known, that Dabney wasn’t the object of her concern.”

“Poor Lieutenant Bayard! I could feel more sympathy for the man, if he hadn’t made himself an enemy of the Slades.” Josiah was on his feet, agitated. He’d set his cup of Ceylon tea down in haste. “If I could lay my hands on this ‘Mayte,’ I could revenge both Dabney and me. But—where have they fled!”

Hesitantly Willy said, “It might be that Annabel did fear Dabney—she feared you all. She didn’t want to disappoint her family, or his family. She might have behaved out of desperation, simply to escape.”

“ ‘Escape’—where?”

“She might not have known what would happen. If she became at all ‘involved’ with this man, in secrecy.”

“And you never saw them together, or heard her speak of him?”

“I’ve told so many people, Josiah—no, and no! Of course not.”

“Annabel was by nature a very shy girl. She knew nothing—I’m sure—of ‘marital relations’—and I’m sure that my mother did not disabuse her ignorance.”