Barkskins (62 page)

“Hullo, Cyrus. Ready for the great move?” Cyrus would head up the new offices in Detroit. A wagonload of desks and chairs, boxes of papers, ink bottles, pens and other office impedimenta had headed west two weeks before, three fresh-hired clerks to oversee the journey and unpacking. A fourth clerk, Lavinia Duke, would remain at the Boston office and work for Edward, Freegrace and James for a year arranging markets for their Michigan lumber. Edward had not been scandalized—Lavinia was blood kin. She was cleverer than any clerk Edward remembered. She brought order to chaos.

“I have something you need to see,” said Cyrus. He unfurled another map, laid it over Edward's desk and handed him a new wad of survey information.

Edward stared at it without seeing anything remarkable.

“What is this supposed to be?” he said. “It looks like land parcels farther north—has James been enlarging the scope of the purchases? I do not feel we are ready to do this. We are quite overextended and need to see income before any more goes out—” He had finally noticed a name on the top survey page.

“What is this? Graf Ernst-August von Rotstein? A competitor?”

“Indeed. Look more closely.”

Edward peered. The purchaser of these northern timber lots was the RBB Timber Company. “Who are they? Maine men? How did they learn about this?”

“RBB stands for Rotstein, Breitsprecher and Breitsprecher. Our old landlooker has become our formidable competitor. You may remember his cousin, the manager of an estate forest in Prussia?”

“Ichabod Crane. I remember him perfectly. Dreadful fellow.”

“The dreadful fellow is related to Graf Ernst-August von Rotstein. He is enormously wealthy and already their holdings almost equal ours.”

“I knew it! I knew it! I never trusted Breitsprecher. The snake, the damnable cursèd python.”

“It is too bad Lennart chose this time to be away. But I will go to James's house and let him know.” Lavinia, behind the door, heard it all and ran home, getting to James before Cyrus arrived.

“Papa! Treachery!” she shouted. “Breitsprecher and his cousin and a rich man have bought a quarter million acres of Michigan pine. They are now our enemies.” And so a rivalry began.

E
dward, fat ancient Edward, who had become a great gourmand in the years since his wife Lydia's death, called for a dinner party to celebrate the rich returns of the first Michigan cut.

“Everyone must come, though of course Cyrus and James cannot, for they are in Detroit. We'll have those hearty lobsters, though how they shall be prepared I will leave to the chef, thrushes
à la Liègeoise,
and one of the black turkeys from Newport sweetened on acorns,
la surprise
and then an English
rosbif
with Russian salad. And whatever else the chef wishes to give us. The wines I will discuss with Freegrace.” He laughed his old man's reedy
heyheyhey
as Lavinia wrote out the invitations. It was a Duke & Sons business affair, and without a doubt the company could afford to scrape the Boston Market stalls empty, stalls always heaped with the bounteous harvests of market hunters at pennies for a brace—pigeons, turkeys, wood thrushes and robins, pipits, countless ducks, swans and geese, even owls, reputed to taste like chicken.

Lavinia begged off attendance. The thrushes were sure to be robins and she could not bear to see them lying roasted on a platter. “You know, Uncle Edward, that I cannot be in a house where cats live. My eyes swell and burn, I can barely breathe. And I get dizzy. It has been so since I was a child and Mama allowed no cats in our house for which I thank her.”

“Oh pish,” said Edward. “Mrs. Trame will put them out in the garden and you will not be troubled.” It was useless to explain to him that cats did not need to be present; a house with cats was permeated with the invisible poison residue of their breath, their hairs. “Do you not remember the last time I tried to dine at your house? How I fell ill and had to be carried home?” It was an unpleasant memory, the gripping choke in her chest, the painful wheeze.

But Edward said stiffly, “I regret you do not show the same regard for cats that you exhibit for birds.”

•  •  •

The conflagration spared four—two cats; the household cook, Mrs. Trame; and Chef Laliberte, who had been hired for the dinner. The scullions escaped early by chance and were sitting in the garden over a wooden platter of orts. In the half-cleaned kitchen, enjoying the leftover birds and a glass of steely hock with Chef Laliberte, Mrs. Trame heard a roaring in the adjacent dining room. She got up and opened the door. A sheet of flame leapt out, scorching her from hem to cap. The chef, no stranger to fire, seized her by the arm and rushed her outside, where they joined the servants. The opening of the kitchen door allowed a blast of oxygen to surge through the house and they could hear the shrieks upstairs, where the dinner party had retired with the port and walnuts. A figure appeared in the upstairs window briefly—Mrs. Trame thought it was Lennart Vogel—then fell back into the rosy light.

Afterward, when her injured throat allowed her to speak, she whispered she had twice chased the cats off the vacated dining room table that evening. She intended to clear it after she and Chef Laliberte had their own dinner and a restorative glass. She surmised the cats had knocked over the candle on the sideboard. They often romped on the furniture.

“When Mrs. Duke was alive the cats were not permitted in the dining room,” she said and wept. “But after she passed on Mr. Duke doted so on Casimir and Vaughn that he allowed anything, even letting them sleep on his bed though it be well known that cats will suck your breath at night.”

•  •  •

James Duke and Cyrus Hempstead left for Boston as soon as word of the fatal dinner party reached them. Edward and Freegrace had been very old, both into their nineties, but Posey and Lennart had been still in strong life.

•  •  •

James, speaking slowly so as not to jostle his headache, found Lavinia in Posey's room sorting out her clothes, packing them into a great wicker hamper.

“Papa! I am so glad you have come,” said Lavinia. “It has been dreadful, just dreadful. People call at all hours to express their regrets. Many think you were in the fire as well as Mama. I have had to repeat endlessly that you were away. I don't know what I would have done without Mrs. Trame.”

“Poor, poor child. What a trial. And tell me what you intend with that clothing. Is any of use to you?” He doubted this as Posey had been stout and busty. His head pounded.

“The church ladies will send someone for the garments. They are to be distributed to the needy. I will keep Mama's jewelry and winter cloaks.” James thought that very few needy women would feel comfortable in Posey's silks, but what did he know? It might be a tonic for them. His hand fell on a kingfisher-blue dressing gown Posey had often worn. Marabou feathers, fur muffs, satin slippers with tiny glass beads on the toes . . . he could imagine some slattern stuffing her horny feet into them.

“I saved out the crimson ball gown that she loved so well—for her funeral dress.” James shuddered inwardly at the thought of his wife's charred corpse in red satin, but dredged up a painful smile for Lavinia. “You have a strength of character far beyond your years, and I salute you.” He needed to lie down with a cold compress on his forehead later.

James breathed in and out gently, straightened up. “Come, dear daughter, let us go down to the library and make a list of what must be done. We will have our plate of toast and decide on the future. We must work together, you and I, to make a life.”

He staggered a little with the force of the tightening vise.

“Papa, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, it's just one of my headaches—my grandmother Mercy was prone to headaches.”

“Shall I send for Dr. Cunningham?”

“No. I shall be well after a good night's sleep.” How he longed for that deep draft of laudanum.

But as they entered the library Lavinia said, “Papa, I think Mama's clothes are too fine to give to the poor. I have an idea I might sell them. Do I have your permission to try?”

“Sell them to whom? I agree that they are of too high quality to just give to those who will not appreciate their value. But who would buy them? I hope you do not think of approaching her friends on this?” He heard his voice meanly snappish.

“No. I think I may go to her dressmakers, Madame Aiglet in New York and Mrs. Brawn in Boston. Both know her wardrobe—indeed, many of the dresses originated with one or the other—and they have a select list of customers, some of whom may appreciate and purchase these beautiful garments. Mama kept them clean, protected from moths in the cedar closet, safe in drawers and chests away from the destroying sunlight. They are like new.”

James, impressed by both his daughter's business acumen and her cool and unsentimental regard for the wardrobe, said she had his approval. He would have approved if she had said she wanted to boil cabbages. He wanted only to lie down.

“I'll go to New York in a few days and speak with Madame Aiglet.”

•  •  •

“Dear Lavinia,” said the dressmaker, a tall woman with coiled black hair, her square face very heavily powdered, “I am sorry for your loss.” She allowed ten or twelve seconds for grieving. “Your mother dressed very well in the most fashionable garments and although this is a somewhat provocative situation I think I can place a number of the dresses. One of my clients, married to a rising politician and of Mrs. Duke's size—perhaps an inch shorter—has many evening dinner demands. She is ever asking for dresses ‘a
leetle
less expensive'—and of course I never have such a thing. It takes time to construct an elaborate dress. This situation may answer the purpose very well. Now, let me ask, what of her furs and capes? She had an exquisite yellow satin evening cape with glass bugles at the hem. Very desirable.”

Mrs. Brawn in Boston was even more eager to have the finery, the hats and gloves, boas, even the silk undergarments from Paris and the least worn of the shoes.

•  •  •

Some weeks later at the breakfast table James read his paper while Lavinia opened her letters. “Papa! Here is a bit of cheer which I badly need. It is from Mrs. Brawn. We have cleared two thousand dollars on Mama's dresses. Should we invest it in Michigan pinelands? It will gain us a few more sections.”

For the hundredth time James thought that his daughter had an unusually canny eye for business. She was—always had been—a go-ahead type. If she had been a man she would have been in the thick of every business fray, following the go-ahead method, accelerating, progressive! He remembered her childhood horse. Posey gave her a small amount of pocket money each week, but she had to “earn” it by taking instruction in sewing, cookery, music (piano); she had to make her own bed and run errands for Posey.

“But the cook's boy can do that, and the housekeeper can make the bed,” said spoiled Lavinia.

“Yes, but I want
you
to do it. If you know from experience what others must do to earn a living you will be a better person with deeper knowledge of others. I have no use for the weak and helpless woman. You may need independence in your life, for women are too often taken advantage of—no one knows this better than I.” But when Lavinia pressed her for those details she said, “Never mind, you need not know. It is only that I do not want you to be helpless if your expectations are dashed. You will thank me someday.”

•  •  •

One August morning that summer young Lavinia had come to the breakfast table with a bulging red purse. She opened it and poured out twenty-seven dollars in coins. “I have saved this money from Mama's weekly gifts and my birthday gift. I wish to buy a horse.”

James's eyes had flooded with tears of pride. He had looked at Posey and shaken his head in wonderment. “Dear child, I will take you to the horse fair this coming Friday that you may see what manner of horse goes for twenty-seven dollars.”

•  •  •

The Friday horse fair was not crowded at the early hour James and Lavinia arrived. They walked around, examining horses, James naming good features and warning Lavinia not to choose solely by the color of the coat or a bright eye.

“We look for a strong short back, a nice muscled croup, straight legs, oh, a hundred little things. And the teeth. It takes some years to know a good horse—it's like learning the ropes on a ship. And I warn you now that for your twenty-seven dollars you will not be able to afford a Thoroughbred.”

James suggested two animals, a gray Tennessee Walker with white on its face and a handsome black three-year-old Morgan mare. Lavinia loved both of them and could not decide. The owner of the Walker wanted fifty dollars firm; the owner of the Morgan, Mr. Robinson, an elderly farmer with silvery whiskers and red-apple cheeks, asked thirty-five, but he winked at Lavinia and they went over to the fence together to bargain, for James was determined not to step in.

Lavinia rushed back, seized his hand. “Papa, she was born in Vermont. They call her Blackie, but I will call her Black Robin. We have an agreement—if we can go straight back home now and get Greengage, my parakeet, and his cage and dishes, Mr. Robinson will take him in addition to the twenty-seven dollars.” James could tell she put a high value on the man's name—the son of a robin could only be a good man, and, allied to birds by his name he would be kind to Greengage, the most valuable parakeet in New England. Silently he thanked Posey for Lavinia's character. And now that Posey was dead and all her faults forgotten he thanked the lucky day he fell into Boston harbor. But all he said as Lavinia mounted her new mare was “I doubt Greengage will enjoy the Vermont winters.”

“Mr. Robinson said he will live in the kitchen near the stove and Mrs. Robinson will knit him a wool vest and leggins if it's a terrible cold winter.”