Maude Brown's Baby (32 page)

Wind lifted the back of Clara’s straw hat. She caught it with one hand and asked the next question as she worked to pin it back in place.
             

“Was he able to visit frequently
, Mr. Payne?”

“Not enough for Maude. The last time any of us saw Captain Brown
was in the spring of 1899, just before he left for South Africa.”

“The last time?” Donald asked, fearing Geoffrey’s next words.

“Yes, Captain Brown served with the Second Battalion of the Black Watch. He was wounded in a skirmish with Boer commandos and later died from the infection. When Maude got the news, she was already expecting her second child.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Donald took
a sharp breath and looked up through the trees. He laid his cap on the table and drug his fingers through his hair, pulling hard at the roots as if drawing thoughts directly from his brain. After years in the dark, the flood of news was hard to absorb. He exhaled slowly before looking back at Geoffrey Payne.

“What happened after my sister was born?”

“Grace was a lovely child, but sickly. We were all happily surprised when she improved and finally learned to walk.”

Geoffrey answered the unspoken question in Donald’s eyes.
             

“Donald, I lost Gracie in the yellow fever outbreak of 1903. There’s a little stone marker in the cemetery on Broadway. It took me years to recover my balance.”

Donald leaned forward on his elbows, momentarily resting his face in his cupped hands. To Clara, he seemed to be trying to slow his breathing. Geoffrey slumped deeper into the wheelchair. Clara broke the silence.

“Mr. P
ayne, why did you leave England?”

Donald looked up as Geoffrey paused, then answered.

“It was expected that I should go. My older brother was in line to inherit the estate and family business, so it was my duty, as the younger sibling, to leave.”

“Expected?” Donald said. “Were you forced out?” He thought how his words sounded and quickly added, “Forgive me for such a personal question.”

“Not at all. I assure you, leaving was entirely my decision. My family would have backed me either way.”

“But why did my mother come with you?”

“She could have stayed in England with Grace. My family’s estate was a fine place to raise her child, but with a second baby on the way and
the recent agony of losing her husband, Maude wanted to get away.”

“So you invited her
…”

“Of course. I was already planning to come here, you see, so I asked your mother to join me.” Geoffrey beamed at Donald
and Clara.

“And that is
why Wesley—pardon me again—that is why Donald was born on Galveston island, and not at my family home in England.” Geoffrey patted Clara’s hand. “And to think that Clara was able to deduce so much from Maude’s photograph of us at the wharf!” He patted her hand again, then remembered something important.

“Look,” Geo
ffrey reached for the picture of Donald, turned it over and tapped with one finger. “See, I was the one who wrote your birth date on the back.”

Clara glanced
back across the park to the man in the grey tunic, tall boots and military cap. He was standing now, feet spread, jodhpurs flared and arms crossed over his chest.

She
turned to Geoffrey. “Mr. Payne, when I learned you might have been an immigrant, I thought of the poor people we see in pictures, huddled in steerage, longing for a fresh start in this country. But now I think the passage may have been easier for you.”

Geoffrey
laughed so loud and hard that Clara and Donald both jumped. It was enough to bring the man in uniform trotting toward their table. Geoffrey, still laughing, reached again for Clara’s hand.

“No, dear, the passage was not
difficult for us at all. My father owned the ship!”

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, Clayton, please bring the car around now.”

“Yes, sir!” Clayton touched the bill of his cap, wheeled on his boot and trotted away as quickly as he’d come.

“Now then, if you two have time for a short trip, there is something I would like very much for you to see.”

Clara spoke for both of them. “Yes, of course, we’d like to go.”

Donald seemed unable to move until Geoffrey turned and beckoned with a gentle wave. Suddenly energized, Donald rose from the table, stretched both arms and stepped int
o place behind Geoffrey’s wheelchair. He lifted the handles and leaned into the task.

Clayton held the rear door of the car open as Geoffrey stood from his chair, walked the last few steps with the help of his cane and climbed in. The driver took the wheelchair around to the back, where he strapped it to a sturdy rack.

“Wesl … Donald, would you mind riding up front with Clayton? With this leg, I need extra room to get in and out.”

“Of course, sir.” Donald waited as Clayton held the door for Clara to get in back with Geoffrey, then reached for the handle of the right front door.

“Other side, sir,” Clayton said. “This car is British.”

Donald walked around and climbed into the front seat. Clayton sat to his right behind the wheel. Donald touched the wood trim, which was finished as well as any piece of furniture he’d ever seen. Not even Mrs. Carhart’s Cadillac was this fine. Every gauge had brass fittings. The cherry wood steering wheel was polished to a mirror shine. A small golden figure of a woman with angel’s wings graced the far end of the hood.

“What is this?” Donald asked as Clayton engaged the car’s electric starter. The engine caught immediately and ran quietly enough for their conversation to continue in a normal voice. Donald touched the firewall, but there was almost no vibration. Clayton smiled.

“This, sir, is a Rolls Royce, the finest motor car in the world.”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“Are you asking about the car, Donald?”

The glass partition that normally separated the driver from the passengers was open. Clara and Mr. Payne looked as if they were resting in a comfortable parlor, with huge glass windows to either side, and a handsome oval porthole of beveled glass on the rear wall behind them.

“My father sent this three years ago as a birthday gift. A complete surprise, I should say. Clayton came with the car. He is a superb driver and a Rolls Royce mechanic to boot. Clayton, do tell Donald about yourself.”

“Nine years building these cars before joining Mr. Payne’s employ,” Clayton said as he accelerated onto Broadway. Several pedestrians stopped to watch the massive Rolls Royce go by.

“I also designed some of the components that are now standard on this model. Mr. Royce himself hired me in 1906, and gave me this gold watch when I left.” Clayton patted his pocket and the smart gold chain that looped out to a button on his uniform.

“Why did you leave?” Donald asked, then worried if he was prying.

“Ever since I was a lad in Manchester, I wanted to come to America. This was my opportunity, and besides, Mr. Payne pays better than Mr. Royce.” Donald heard Geoffrey laugh from the back seat.

Clayton guided the Rolls smoothly up a long circular driveway. A
ragged double row of oleanders lined the path, which was laid in a herringbone pattern with alternating shades of brick.

“Clayton,”
Geoffrey called from the back, “please ask the gardener to look after these oleanders; they need trimming.”

“Yes
, sir.”

Donald noticed Clayton’s lingering smile.
             

Clayton stopped the Rolls in front of a white marble landing that was as wide as the car was long. He held
the door for Clara and Geoffrey, then moved to help his employer up the steps. Donald opened his own door and stepped around the back of the car toward Clayton.

“If you walk about, sir, mind the peacocks.” Clayton glanced back at Donald. He nodded his head toward several large b
irds strutting near the gazebo. “They bite.”

“A glass of sherry, my dear?” Geoffrey was standing now, leaning heavily
on his cane. He motioned Clara and Donald into the drawing room, then crossed to its well-stocked bar.

“Yes, thank you,” Clara said.
             

“And Donald, how about you?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, sir,” Donald said, instantly fearing a mistake, but not enough to take it back. Geoffrey nodded solemnly and began pouring their drinks.

“What a beautiful room,” Clara said, slowly turning to take it all in.

“What do you call that, sir, when the center of the ceiling is missing and you can see to the second floor?” Donald asked.

“That’s a mezzanine. It allows light from the second story windows to illuminate the drawing room.”

Donald’s eyes followed the railing all the way around the upper floor. “It’s like having a balcony all around.”

The room was filled with interesting objects. While Geoffrey mixed their drinks, Donald was drawn to a pair of portraits hanging in a small alcove. Electric lamps over each painting illuminated the canvas.

Geoffrey made his way toward them. “These are my parents, Jonathan and Melissa Payne. I am happy to say that they are both alive and well. Perhaps you can meet them some day.”

“I’d love that, sir,” Donald said, knowing that if he ever did travel to Europe, it would more likely be with a gas mask and a gun.

“Here you go, then,” Geoffrey said, handing a sherry to Clara and balancing drinks for himself and Donald in the palm of his other hand.

“My heart medicine,”
Geoffrey said, raising his crystal glass. He held it aloft in a toast. “Ah, single-malt Scotch. It does me good, Donald, to see that you appreciate fine spirits.”

Donald looked skeptically at the amber liquid. He sniffed and felt a warm rush in his nose. Geoffrey winked at Clara and smiled. Donald raised the glass to his lips, then drank as if it were a cup of warm beer.

“Ackkk!” Donald jerked forward and cupped his left hand under his chin to keep Scotch from dribbling to the floor. It spurted, instead, from his nose.

“Ackkk!” He convulsed again, trying to keep the rest of it in. Heat rose up his nostrils and raced down his throat. Heat spread across his chest. He drew a frantic deep breath and covered both nose and mouth with his handkerchief. In a raspy voice he managed to say, “excuse me.”

Geoffrey chuckled. He
took Donald’s glass and ambled slowly back to the bar. Clara’s face shifted from concern to relief. “You said you had something to show us, Mr. Payne? Did you mean the paintings?”

“N
o, Clara, not the paintings.” Geoffrey raised his hand toward a simple but well-crafted staircase leading to the mezzanine. “There’s something upstairs that will interest you more.”

Donald had recovered somewhat. He took a few breath
s. Geoffrey smiled toward Clara and gestured for Donald’s arm. Together, they took the stairs slowly, Geoffrey raising one foot and then the other to each new step. At the landing he stopped to rest his leg. A generous space opened at the top with room enough for a pair of comfortable chairs.

“This is sweet,” Clara said, pointing to a child-sized reproduction of the adult chairs. In it, a porcelain baby doll sat alone, eyes open wide.

Donald gazed over the banister into the room below.

Geoffrey
coughed before he spoke. “You see, Donald, I bought this house soon after your mother and I came to Galveston. The core of it was built by a retired navy captain in 1885. He fancied the mezzanine. I think it reminded him of his ship. Your mother and I made minor changes to make the house more suitable for her and the children.”

Clara turned to Geoffrey. “Donald lived here?”

“For nine months, yes.”              

Donald felt himself sway. Geoffrey’s hand
tightened on his arm.

Geoffrey pointed his cane toward a closed door. “I seldom enter this room because it makes me sad. I make sure it is aired and dusted regularly, but other than that
…” He reached for the glass door knob. His eyes were fixed on Donald.

“Yes
, sir?”             

Geoffrey let the door swing wide.

“Donald, this was your mother’s photography studio.”

His
feet refused to move. He felt Geoffrey release his arm and Clara’s hand on his back. “Oh, Donald,” she said, “it’s all just the same! The chair, the wallpaper, even the books against the wall and the little clock on the chest of drawers.”

Donald wanted to inhale the room. He walked around the perimeter, studied the high ceiling and marveled at the French skylights.

“Those windows were the devil to install,” Geoffrey commented, pointing up with his cane. “But Maude insisted she needed them. I think you must have agreed, because you were never so happy as when you were in this room with your mother.”