Maude Brown's Baby (34 page)

Donald stooped forward. He lifted the black cloth that hung from the
rear of the studio camera and looked at the ground glass plate. The screen was dark, the glass reflecting Donald’s own face. Without looking out from under the cloth, he reached around to the front of the bulky camera and removed the brass lens cap. His fingers found, then depressed the lever that opened the shutter. His reflection disappeared, replaced by the view through the lens. In the focusing glass, the chair and room appeared upside down, as he knew they would.

From the hallway, Clara had heard Donald’s voice. She slowly ope
ned the studio door. The big camera sat on its wooden tripod in the center of the room. Donald stooped behind it, head and shoulders hidden under the thick black cloth.              

She
watched his hand reach for the squeeze bulb hanging by a thin rubber hose from the lens. His fingers closed around it as slowly and gently as if they were holding a fresh egg. Clara stepped back into the hallway. The studio door clicked faintly as it closed.

U
nder the dark shroud, Donald felt years slip away. He studied the view. His hands belonged to someone else. One adjusted the focus for maximum depth of field. The other reached forward and cocked the shutter of the heavy lens. The image on the glass disappeared.

In the darkness of the cloth, a young boy laughed. Donald peeked around the left side of the camera and saw the boy in the chair. Donald opened his eyes and mouth wide, making a playful face at the child.

The boy, suddenly delighted, leaned forward, left hand on the arm of the chair, right hand in his lap. His little forefinger and thumb just touched.

Blood pulsed in Donald’s neck and rushed in his ears. His mother’s fingers and his own tightened on the rubber bulb. Sweat ran down his back. It dripped from his brow. The scene is just as Mother left it. The only thing missing is her son. Wait
… Wait …
Squeeze
.

Click.

At last, he is here.

Donald’s head jerked up, startled from his dream. H
e knew how foolish he must look. He stood awkwardly. The black cloth pulled from the camera and hung on his shoulders. Half of it draped over his head. He lifted the fabric from his glasses. His eyes darted left to right, then back to the closed door. He was grateful to find himself alone in the room.

“Inhale … hold ..
. exhale ... hold.”

He heard a quiet knock, but the door remained closed.

“Donald?”

“Yes, Clara?”

“Supper is ready. Can you come down?”

“I’ll be right there.”

“W
ill you join me in another Scotch?”

“No
thank you, sir.” Donald returned Clara’s grin. “One is my limit.”

Geoffrey refilled his
own glass from the decanter he’d brought to the table. He took his time pouring, careful not to spill a drop on the tablecloth. He didn’t speak until he’d finished and replaced the crystal stopper.

The cozy dining room was just off the kitchen. Electric wall lamps remain
ed off in favor of candle light, and the warm glow made Geoffrey appear younger. His eyes revealed a softness that wasn’t there earlier in the day.

Geoffrey studi
ed Donald over the rim of his full glass. “So, it looks as if you know something about cameras, my boy.”

“Donald is a photographer and journalist,” Clara said.

Geoffrey sipped his Scotch before responding. “Hum, a photographer and a journalist? Photo-journalism. Any future in that?”

“I aim to find out, sir.”

“What sort of …”

The kitchen door thumped open, flooding the quiet candle-lit dining room with harsh electric light. A jovial woman with rosy cheeks and bright red hair backed in, bottom first, balancing a silver tray with three steaming bowls of potato soup and a plate of rolls.

“I’m hoping you’re hungry now,” she said in a thick Irish accent. “Eat hardy. The pork chops will be out by the time you’re done with this.”

The c
ook gave Clara an approving wink, then quickly as she’d come, disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung back and forth on its hinges several times. When it closed completely, Geoffrey felt free to explain.

“Most of the staff is off tonight; Bridget and Clayton are doing extra duty.”

Geoffrey drained the last of his Scotch and reached for the full bottle of Texas wine.

“I think you
will enjoy this selection from my supplier in Val Verde.”

Donald and Clara each sipped at their wine and nodded approvingly. Geoffrey swallowed half of his in one gulp and refilled the glass.

Donald dabbed a small chunk of bread in the bottom of his bowl to retrieve the last drops of soup. Clara refrained. Geoffrey was about to speak when the dining room once more filled with electric light. Bridget backed in, again moving the heavy door with her rear, and carrying in her hands a silver platter with the main course.

“Pork chops from the butcher and greens from me own little garden,” s
he said cheerfully, serving Geoffrey first. “And you, miss, and you, sir.” The cook completed her task in a way that reminded Clara more of service in a simple country inn than the home of a wealthy man.

Geoffrey, bemused, thanked Bridget and waited until
she’d returned to the kitchen.

“It is so difficult to find proper help,” he said. “Not like in England, I can assure you.” Geoffrey refilled his wine goblet, spilling a bit on the table.

Donald swirled his wine gently, lost briefly in its deep garnet hue. “Sir, could you tell me more about my mother’s interest in photography?”

Geoffrey grew thoughtful. He sipped his
wine more slowly.

“I
t was much more than an interest, my boy. Photography was her life. It meant so much to Maude that we decided straight away to find a house where she could have a proper studio and darkroom.”

Clara traced the delicate scroll etched into her wine goblet. “Was she happy living here?”

“Oh yes, dear. Maude was so pleased with her studio that I could hardly get her out of it for meals.”

“And this house, sir,” Donald asked, “was it badly damaged by the storm?”

“It survived nearly unscathed. If Maude had gotten home from town that day, she would probably still be alive.”

Geoffrey fell silent, and Donald and Clara let him eat in peace. Once he seemed himself again, Clara pressed on. “And you’ve lived here ever since the Great Storm?” Donald was grateful for her questions.
             

“After the storm,” Geoffrey said, “I retained the nanny to care for Donald’s sister. When little Gracie passed in ’03, I dabbled in business, but found I had no talent.”

Donald heard voices in the kitchen. If Geoffrey objected, he didn’t say. A minute later, Bridget backed in with bread pudding and coffee.

“Are you still in business, sir?” Donald asked after Bridget had gone.

“No, the accountant looks after my investments and pays the bills. I still meet with associates for companionship, but I’ll have none of the business world myself.”

“There is something I don’t understand, Mr. Payne.”

“Yes, Clara?”

“When I called to let you know that you might have a relative who survived the storm, you sounded reserved on the telephone.”

“No, my dear, I was not reserved. I was entirely rude.”

“But why? I thought you would be happy.”

Geoffrey tipped a dash of brandy in his coffee, then stirred with a small silver spoon. “Coffee is the thing in this country,” he said. “I used to drink nothing but tea.” He added more brandy, stirred that in with the rest, then answered Clara’s question.

“I was thrilled the first time someone claimed to be the boy I knew as Wesley. I made a fool of myself, crying on the telephone. I even wired money for the scoundrel to come to Galveston. That was three years ago. It happened again last year, so yours was the third such call.”

“Why would anyone claim to be someone they were not?”

Geoffrey
sipped his coffee, then held the cup a few inches from his nose, closing his eyes to savor the aroma of warm brandy. He opened his eyes slowly and explained.

“People consider me a wealthy man, my dear, and the smell of money attracts charlatans and cheats. I’m afraid that when you called, I released my wrath on you. My first thought, seeing the pair of you today in the park, was that yours was the best fake yet.”

When they’d finished with dessert, Geoffrey suggested they retire to the drawing room for a nightcap. He tried to stand, but dropped heavily back into his chair, making a loud scraping sound against the floor. The room instantly flooded with electric light as Clayton burst through from the kitchen.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Clayton, dear fellow. In my cups, again, I’m afraid.”

“Ah well, no harm done, sir. Let me help you.”

Geoffrey looked up at his guests, who were now standing by their chairs.

“Donald, Clara, will you excuse me? I feel a bit light-headed.”

“Of course,” Donald said. “Clayton, do you need help?”

“None at all, sir. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Donald could see the way Geoffrey flung his arm over Clayton’s broad shoulders that this was not the first time the chauffeur had helped his boss this way. Clara and Donald decided to wait in the drawing room for Clayton to return.             

“Some of this reminds me of Mrs. Carhart’s home,” Donald said, examining a large cloisonné
vase resting on a three-legged Art Nouveau table.

Behind him, Clara laughed.

“What?”

“Donald, you should see this.”

He turned and looked to where she pointed.             

“Those funny boxes?”

“Yes. They’re wonderful.”

“They’re crooked.”

Clara laughed again. “That’s part of their charm,” she said, lifting one. “It’s called tramp art.”

Donald looked closer at the little box. He opened the lid, then closed it again. He leaned closer, lifted his glasses, then dropped them back on his nose.

“The whole thing’s made of matchsticks and bits of tin.”

“And this box is made of tongue depressors, just like we use at the hospital.”

Donald shook his head and began examining the room’s odd décor with more interest. Here, a gathering of miniature iron frogs. Nearby, an company of lead soldiers, each uniform hand-painted down to the last button. Donald opened an album on the table and found a set of rotogravure travel cards. One entire wall of the room displayed posters, handbills and souvenirs from the 1900 World’s Fair.

“He’s quite the collector,” Clayton called out as he entered the drawing room. Donald was surprised to see the chauffe
ur so completely at ease. Clayton still wore his smart grey uniform, but now the top buttons were undone.

“May I use your first names?”

“Certainly,” Clara said, speaking for them both.

“Donald, Clara, won’t you please sit with me?” Clayton gestured toward the most comfort
able chairs in the room. “There is something you should know about Mr. Payne.”

“Say Bridge?” Clayton called toward the kitchen.

“Yes, love?” Bridget called back.

“Could we have a sip of coffee and some tarts?”

“In a minute, love.”

Clara and Donald traded looks, then turned back to Clayton.

“Bridget is my wife,” he explained.

“Where is Mr. Payne?” Donald demanded.

“Resting
in his room. He should be up again soon.”

“I don’t understand. I thought
this was Mr. Payne’s home.”

“Oh, it
most certainly is. I mean no disrespect. I have the deepest admiration for Mr. Payne.”

“Are you really the chauffe
ur?”

“Yes, Donald, I am indeed the chauffe
ur.”

“But
…”

“And I am the gardener, and the accountant, and Mr. Payne’s personal secretary, and anything else he needs. I am also his friend, and he is mine.”

“Mr. Payne said that most of his staff had the night off.”

“That’s not exactly true, Donald. Bridget and I are the staff.”

Clayton leaned forward in his chair and cleared space on the low table between them. Bridget appeared with a small pot of coffee and four cups. Donald and Clara politely declined, but Bridget sat with them and poured for Clayton and herself.

“
Bridget and I are Mr. Payne’s only employees,” Clayton repeated. “Sir Jonathan Payne sent us here to care for his son, which we’ve been doing for the past three years.”             

Clara sat back into her chair, her hand raised to her mouth.