Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (5 page)

She hadn’t wanted a maid in the first place. It had been her mother’s idea, and her father had concurred, mostly, Allison suspected, because he thought it looked grand for his debutante daughter to have a lady’s maid hovering around her. The two of them, Henry and Adelaide, insisted on quoting Emily Post at every opportunity, and Emily Post decried the sharing of maids between a mother and her debutante daughter.

Even after only two days, it was clear to Allison that the Benedicts of Seattle had no need to consult Emily Post in order to do things properly. Despite Aunt Edith’s fragile state and the lack of a butler, the style and management of Benedict Hall was as effortless and elegant as any house Allison had seen. Nothing was ostentatious, but every piece of furniture, every bit of drapery, every decoration had been chosen with exquisite taste. The Seattle Benedicts wore their wealth easily, in a way that seemed vastly more sophisticated to Allison than her own family’s display.

She had visited enough homes of the wealthy in the past year to understand that her parents’ home verged on the vulgar. Its rooms were crowded with velvet davenports and suites of club chairs. Etageres and occasional tables and Persian rugs filled every available space. Allison had protested, once, when some new piece of scrolled and carved furniture was delivered, and her mother had spat at her that she wasn’t going to live in an empty barn.

She had been more successful in talking her mother out of putting Ruby in a uniform, probably because Papa didn’t want to have to pay for it. Allison had managed to head off the lace cap, pinafore apron, and black button-up dress by assuring her mother such a getup was much too old-fashioned. She hadn’t used the word
pretentious
, but it was in her arsenal if necessary.

Looking at the servants’ attire at Benedict Hall, she knew she’d been right. The twin maids, Leona and Loena, wore simple print dresses with long utilitarian aprons over them. Like Ruby, they wore dark stockings and flat, serviceable shoes, or boots if they were going outside the house. Ruby clarified her higher position as a lady’s maid by wearing a white shirtwaist and a dark skirt that fell demurely to her ankles. She had a trim white apron to wear when she was doing wash or sewing or carrying trays.

It had been a lucky thing that Ruby was able to sew new skirts for herself. She had gained at least ten pounds during Allison’s debutante season from sitting around in the kitchens of grand houses waiting for the parties to be over, drinking tea and eating leftovers as she gossiped with the other ladies’ maids.

Papa remarked that it looked as if Ruby had gained all the weight Allison had lost that year. He supposed the excitement of being a debutante—photographers everywhere, dressmakers parading through the house, engraved invitations arriving in the mail—had made Allison lose her appetite. At meals she could feel his speculative gaze, assessing her hair and skin and figure as if she were a bale of dyed silk and he was trying to decide what price he could demand.

If he knew what her mother had done, would he send Adelaide to Bella Vista Rest Home instead of her? It had crossed her mind to just spill it out to them, to Papa and that appalling Dr. Kinney, tell them the whole truth of the matter.

They might not have believed her in any case, but more than that, it was part of her private struggle with her mother. To turn it over to someone else would be, in some obscure way, to give up. To surrender. Allison would never, ever surrender, even if she died.

She turned now before the mirror, noting with satisfaction that her breasts and hips were so flat she could have been a boy. She would have preferred being a boy, actually. Boys grew into men, and men were free. Men could choose what they wanted to do. Men had all the fun, men like Tommy Fellowes, late of Exeter College, Oxford.

Allison bent to take a handkerchief from a drawer. When she stood up she had to pause, one hand braced against the wall, until the black dots faded from her vision. She supposed she had better be careful about that. It was getting to be a habit.

 

Margot went up the back porch, leaving her umbrella to dry beside the kitchen door. She sidled carefully through the kitchen, apologizing for getting in the way of Hattie and the two maids, who were bustling between the stove and the counters, their hands full of spoons and spatulas and serving bowls. Hattie just smiled, and said, “Get yourself on in there, Miss Margot, and set down. Your mama gonna be glad to see you.”

Margot doubted that, but she passed on through the kitchen and out into the hall, reaching it just as her cousin was descending the carpeted steps of the main staircase.

Margot’s first thought was that Allison looked more like a thirteen-year-old girl than a young woman of nineteen. She was fair, and very pretty, but the bodice of her dress barely swelled over her bosom. The dropped waist made her lean hips look even narrower, and the points of her clavicle, revealed by the square neckline of her frock, stood out like those of an undernourished child. For a moment, Margot gazed at her in confusion, wondering why no one had mentioned Allison was ill.

Allison looked back at her from shadowed eyes that seemed full of suspicion. They gazed at each other for a suspended moment, until the door to the small parlor opened, spilling the murmur of conversation into the silence. Ramona appeared in the doorway. “Oh, Margot, good!” she said. “You’re here. We were just about to go in to dinner.”

With an effort, Margot recalled why she had made an effort to be present tonight. She took a step forward, and held out her hand to the thin girl standing on the lowest stair. “Cousin Allison,” she said. “It’s nice to see you. I’m glad you could come to stay at Benedict Hall for a time.”

Allison shifted her handkerchief to her left hand. She extended her right, and Margot took it cautiously. Her bones looked as fragile as a bird’s, and her skin was cold to the touch. “Cousin Margot,” Allison said. “Thank you for”—there was the briefest pause before she finished, with deliberate inflection—“
inviting
me.”

Margot heard the inflection without knowing whether it was intentional or inadvertent. She saw, though, the narrowing of the girl’s eyes, the flash of emotion in her blue gaze. She lifted an eyebrow. “And how are you?”

It was a commonplace courtesy, a ritual question. For Margot, however, the query was not so simple as it was for most people. It had layers of meaning, elements of real significance. It was why she had chosen her profession, and the sight of this emaciated girl engaged both her interest and her concern.

At the very least, there was no question of Allison Benedict being pregnant. With her body weight so low she was doubtless amenorrhoeic. Margot had observed the condition in malnourished daughters of Chinese laborers and occasionally the crib girls of the Tenderloin.

Allison turned her face away and stepped down the last stair to follow Ramona toward the dining room. Over her shoulder, she said, in a brittle tone Margot thought was meant to be gay, “Oh, swell, Cousin Margot, thanks. I’m just swell.”

C
HAPTER
5

Allison’s seat was on Aunt Edith’s left, at the foot of the table. At the head, Uncle Dickson settled into his chair with a slight grunt. Cousin Ramona and Cousin Dick sat together on Uncle Dickson’s left, the other side of the table from Allison, their faces all but obscured by a tall silver candelabra. Cousin Margot was on Allison’s left, and directly opposite her, at Aunt Edith’s right hand, one chair remained empty, though the place was set with a charger and a full complement of flatware and crystal.

Allison knew what it was, because the twins had told Ruby, and Ruby, unusually animated by the tidbit of gossip, had whispered it to her before her first dinner at Benedict Hall. The empty chair had been Cousin Preston’s, set at his usual place at the table, on his mother’s right hand. When Uncle Dickson had asked the maids to remove it, Ruby reported, Aunt Edith had screamed and wept, and slapped at the maids’ hands until everyone was in tears.

It was hard not to stare at that empty chair with its plum-colored brocade and scrolled frame, and watching the maids remove the charger and unused silverware after each course made Allison’s skin crawl. No one else seemed to pay any attention. She supposed they were used to it, but it made her feel as if she were sitting opposite a ghost.

She wished Cousin Margot would sit there, instead, so she could take a good look at her. She was younger than Allison remembered. She wore the simplest of dinner dresses, just dark green wool, with a V-neck collar and a pleated skirt that fell to the middle of her calves. She wore no jewelry at all, and she certainly didn’t have a stethoscope around her neck! Allison wondered where she kept it. Cousin Margot was no model of chic, but her hair was neatly shingled in back, and hung in straight, shining curves under her chin. Clearly, she didn’t need pomade to wrestle her hair into the style she wanted. Allison suspected she wouldn’t have bothered if she did, and probably no one could nag her, a doctor, about how to wear her hair or what dress to put on.

The two redheaded maids began serving a soup course that tasted strongly of onions. Allison tasted it, to be polite, before she laid down her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. She felt Cousin Margot’s eyes assessing her from the side. Those eyes seemed to look right through a person. They were dark, like her older brother’s and her father’s, but they had a sort of gleam to them, as if she had one of those new X-ray things built right into her head. Allison resisted a foolish impulse to put up her hand to block Margot’s gaze.

Ramona said brightly, “Margot, Cousin Allison was telling us last night about seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris.”

“Did you like it?” Margot asked, forcing Allison to turn toward her. “Many do, I think.”

“Well, it is the tallest structure in the world,” Ramona said, before Allison could answer. “That makes it interesting.”

“And it has Otis elevators,” Uncle Dickson said. “Some French ones, too, but I’m told the American ones work much better.”

“Trust you to know that, Father,” Margot said.

Uncle Dickson chortled and waved his soupspoon. “American industry, daughter. It’s the best. Still, the tower is an achievement.”

“I suppose it is,” Margot said. “But I found it rather stark, in that city full of graceful old architecture.”

Adelaide had oohed and aahed over the Eiffel Tower. She had made Allison stand in line forever in the hot sun so the two of them could have their photograph taken in front of it. Allison thought at the time that was the reason she disliked it. Now, Cousin Margot had perfectly expressed her reaction. Allison had found the Eiffel Tower crude and somehow aggressive, with its dark lattices and clanking lifts and exaggerated point stabbing the sky. Of course she hadn’t said so. Her mother would have snapped at her that she didn’t know anything about architecture, which of course was true, or that she should respect the opinions of people who knew better. Allison often didn’t respect the opinions of people who were supposed to know better, but she had learned not to say so.

She found herself stuck now, not wanting to offend Ramona, but intrigued, and a bit confused, to find that someone—anyone—shared her unspoken opinion. She blinked, wondering what she could say. Finally, awkwardly, she said, “I liked Notre Dame much better.”

“Yes, so did I,” Margot said, nodding at Allison as if her thoughts mattered. As if she really wanted to hear them. She said, “I love the feeling of age in an old cathedral like that. There’s a weight to it. A sort of rooted feeling. It makes me feel connected to all the other people who have been there.”

This was so like the way Allison had felt when she entered the shadowy, cool interior of Notre Dame that she fell silent, remembering. Her mother had been impatient, saying they had seen enough churches, but Allison could have wandered through the cathedral for hours, discovering bits of statuary, interesting niches, enjoying the way the stained glass windows colored the sunbeams that fell over the marble floors. Her mother had tugged her away when she was trying to examine the gallery stalls, which had marvelous carvings. Adelaide ordered the maids to gather their things so they could go to the hotel, and ordered Allison to move on in exactly the same tone of voice she used with Ruby and Jane. Allison had snatched her arm away from her mother, fighting an urge to simply flee.

She couldn’t have done that, of course. She didn’t speak very good French, and she wasn’t allowed any money of her own. There was no place she could go. Simmering with resentment and frustration, she had followed Adelaide out into the courtyard like a dog on a leash. All of this flashed through her mind in a moment as she looked up into Cousin Margot’s searching gaze. “I’d like to go back,” she said, and though she was afraid it was an obscure, even a childish, thing to say, Margot nodded again.

“I would, too. Some day when I can have a nice long vacation.”

Ramona, bravely trying to keep the conversation going, said, “Dick and I honeymooned in Paris. Such a romantic city.” Her husband smiled at her, and she blushed becomingly. She was plumper than Allison remembered, her cheeks rounder, her bosom fuller. It didn’t seem to concern anyone, though. No one appeared to be taking note of what she ate.

“I went to Paris after I finished my undergraduate work,” Margot said. “Paris and London. I didn’t have time for Italy, because I was due to start medical school.” She glanced at Allison, a clear signal that it was her turn to contribute.

Allison wasn’t used to being included this way. It was hard to keep thinking of polite things to say, and Cousin Margot was so attentive, she didn’t want to make a mistake. “Italy was my favorite,” she said lamely.

There was so much more she could have said. She could have described the fabulous Uffizi Gallery in Florence, which had captivated her. She could have mentioned going to an opera in Milan, where the music had been heavenly, but which Adelaide had ruined by saying it was too hot and the Italians were too rude. She had ridden in a gondola in Venice, while her mother ran on about what a terrible place it must be to live, with mold and damp and peeling paint everywhere. Adelaide kept a handkerchief to her nose to shut out the stink of the water. Allison and the gondolier, who fortunately didn’t speak a word of English, had exchanged rueful glances, so that Allison had to hide a laugh behind her hand. It had been one of her favorite moments of the tour.

She could find no way to express all of that. She could hardly even organize her private thoughts about it. She had loved Italy for its music and its art and its laughing people. The food, however, had been a torment.

Uncle Dickson saved her by saying, “Well, well. Allison, your aunt Edith also loves to travel. Don’t you, Edith?”

Allison turned to her aunt. Edith, who hadn’t touched her cup of soup, raised her eyes to her husband. “What, dear?”

Uncle Dickson said, speaking with careful clarity, “We were talking about travel, Edith. You always enjoyed traveling.”

“Oh, yes,” Edith said, but she dropped her gaze immediately, not looking at Allison at all. “Oh, yes,” she said again.

When the salad came, Allison ate most of it, feeling the pressure of Margot’s questioning gaze. She ate a bit of sea bass, and one bite of fried potatoes. The potatoes also tasted strongly of onions. She mashed them with her fork into a little pile at the side of her plate.

The maids came in with dessert and a coffeepot. Leona, Allison could see, was ever so slightly thinner than her sister Loena. Leona had a freckle beside her left ear, too, that Loena lacked. Allison thought she would point that out to Ruby so she would stop complaining about not being able to tell them apart.

As Loena poured coffee, Cousin Dick said, “So, Margot, how’s the clinic coming? Windows all in?”

“Yes,” Margot said, pulling her coffee cup closer to her. “The windows are in, and the floors are almost done.” She picked up her coffee and leaned back, cradling the small china cup in long, strong-looking fingers. “Cartons arrive every day,” she said with satisfaction. “The autoclave is here, a full set of storage jars, and the mattresses for the exam tables. Two of the doctors at the hospital have sent me extra specula and syringes, and one of them had a drug cabinet he wasn’t using—” She broke off and gave Ramona a wry look. “Sorry, Ramona. You don’t like hearing all these details.”

“Well, no,” Ramona said, with a light laugh. “But I know it’s a big undertaking, replacing
everything
.”

“It is, in fact. So many details! Hattie’s going to make curtains for the windows, bless her. I could have hired someone, but she really wanted to do it. I worry that she’s doing too much, handling Blake’s job as well as her own.”

Dickson said, “Let her do it, daughter, if she wants to. She’s proud of you.”

“I know. It’s awfully kind.”

Edith looked up abruptly, as if something Margot said had startled her. “Curtains,” she said.

Uncle Dickson frowned, and Allison thought his lips trembled. “What, dear?” he said.

“Curtains,” she said again, as if he should understand. “I forgot to tell Hattie.”

Margot leaned forward and set her cup down. “Mother, what about the curtains?” Her voice usually had a decisive tone, an authoritative edge to it. Now, however, she spoke carefully to her mother, as her father had done earlier. Allison wondered if this was how she spoke to her patients.

Edith turned her head to her daughter, but a trifle too slowly, as if she were having trouble locating the speaker. “It’s the curtains in Preston’s room. They’re dusty. They should be—” She fluttered one thin hand. The skin was so pale it almost seemed a person could see right through it to the bones beneath. Allison glanced down at her own hand, and noticed, with a twinge of unease, that her fingers were nearly as bony as Aunt Edith’s.

Ramona said, “Mother Benedict, I’ll have Leona do it. Don’t trouble yourself.”

Dick covered his wife’s hand with his. Dickson nodded and cleared his throat. Margot, on Allison’s left, folded her arms, and Allison had the distinct impression she was holding herself in.

Aunt Edith gazed around the table as if she were searching for someone. Her eyes went from place to place, the empty chair, her daughter-in-law’s face, her son, her husband at the head. When they reached Margot, they focused suddenly. The pupils swelled, threatening to swallow the pale blue irises. Her pale lips parted, and as she drew breath, Allison felt Margot tense beside her.

“I told you,” she said in an urgent whisper. “I told you not to do it. You shouldn’t have done it, Margot.” Allison’s arms prickled with gooseflesh. She realized her mouth was open, and she pressed her lips quickly together.

“Edith,” Uncle Dickson said. “Margot didn’t do anything.”

“She did!” Aunt Edith’s voice rose. “She spent all Mother’s money on that clinic, and then Preston . . . Preston . . .”

Dickson shoved back his chair, the wood creaking in protest, and stood up. He strode around the table to Edith, surprising Leona, who had just come in with a tray. The maid made a small, startled sound and took a step back, the dessert plates on her tray sliding and clicking against one another. Dickson sidestepped her, reached his wife, and bent to take her elbows and pull her gently up and out of her chair. “Edith,” he said, with a crack in his gruff voice. “Edith, come with me. Let’s go into the small parlor.” She protested, something wordless, and he kept murmuring, “Come now, dear. Come with me.” He put an arm around her slender back and guided her toward the door.

Allison watched all of this, embarrassed but fascinated. The misery emanating from Margot, at her elbow, was like a wave of cold from an open window in wintertime. Dick, from the opposite side of the table, said, “Don’t worry, Margot. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Ramona pressed her palms together, as if in prayer, and said, “Dick, I don’t see how we can go on like this. Your mother’s really not well.”

Cousin Margot shook her head at Leona, who was trying to serve her dessert. It was some sort of custard, with a curl of whipped cream on the top of it. It looked tantalizing, but Allison also refused it.

Leona settled for placing dessert in front of Dick and Ramona, then backed out of the dining room, the tray in her hands. Loena peeked over her shoulder, and the two maids whispered to each other, something Allison couldn’t catch. Dick ate the custard in a few quick bites, as if it were medicine he was forcing down. Ramona poked at it with a listless spoon, and gave Allison a sad smile across the table. “I’m sorry, Cousin Allison,” she said. “Mother Benedict hasn’t recovered from Preston’s . . . that is, from losing Preston.”

Allison found her voice at last, though her throat was dry. “It’s very sad,” she said. “Poor Aunt Edith.” In truth, she was stunned by such naked infirmity, the evidence of real illness. Her own mother’s nervous attacks appeared even less convincing in the face of the scene she had just witnessed. “What was she . . . what did she mean?”