The Angry Woman Suite (21 page)

I
felt it, I could almost see it.
The sudden premonition left me breathless.

Fey.
The word I’d used to describe Magdalene as a child. It meant an unusually excited state, once believed to portend sudden death, as in
doomed
. I believed, then, it had suited Magdalene Grayson to a T. And yet, looking back, so many years after the horrible murders and what happened to Stella because of them, I finally know it as the word that had suited nearly every one of us.

Everyone
but
Magdalene Grayson.

From the loft where I directed a quartet that included Jamie, I assumed Stella Grayson
was
a member of the wedding party. There were two bridesmaids; one tiny—Lothian, of course—and the other unbelievably tall and bony. Problem was, I wouldn’t have been able to make out facial features regardless of the distance between us. The bridesmaids’ faces, as well as the bride’s, were sheathed in dense netting. How could they even see where they were walking? Jamie’s lips quivered with suppressed laughter.

“You knew about the veils,” I accused him back at the mill house, dodging servants arranging food and flowers. “And
you
know Stella.”

Jamie’s smile was enigmatic.
“Of course
I know Stella. I grew up with Magdalene and Lothian. They’re my friends. You’d think I’d know a few things about them, including their sister. It amazes me, Aidan, that you never figured that out.” He leaned forward, pseudo-leering. “I’ve been inside the chamber of horrors, Aidan, and it
is
a dark, creepy-crawly—”

“Oh shut up. It’s just that people have been talking about Stella for years, what she looks like, where her parents keep her, and here you’ve known all along, yet never said a word. Not even to your father, I’d wager. Am I right?”

“Can’t take that wager, Aidan.” Jamie’s grin widened. “But have to admit, I
am
very good with secrets.”

“No kidding. Where’s Stella now?” I craned my neck. “For that matter, where’s the bride? How did the bride get in here without me seeing her? And where’s the groom? Isn’t the groom supposed to be with the bride? Where
is
everybody?” Sahar wheeled up next to us.

“You can be heard all the way into the next room, Aidan. The bride’s in my dressing room. But Stella went back to Grayson House with her mother right after the wedding; Elizabeth pleaded a migraine—and stop scowling. No one else got the chance to see Stella, either. Now go. You’ll find the groom with the other men under the oak. They have gin.”

“What men?” I said, morose. “There’re just a few of us left.”

Sahar smiled. “Oh stop—Jamie dear, I need your help. And, Aidan, would you mind bringing in a couple more bottles of gin?—through the kitchen door, and just the other side of it.”

I went into the kitchen and pressed a knothole in the wood siding, exposing the hidden door that also opened onto the side courtyard, just for fun, enjoying the wide-eyed looks of the staff. I stepped into the courtyard. The air was heavy with humidity, and from where I stood, taking in deep gulps, I could’ve been in a wilderness, except for the party supplies stacked a table high. I stepped forward and it was then I heard them: male voices, low-pitched. I moved slowly, trying to pinpoint their location, until I was all the way at the back of the house, overlooking the old water mill one level below.

They jumped apart, out of their embrace, and my first thought, ridiculous as it was, is that a bridegroom should stay with
all
the men—that is, if he can’t stay with his bride. And my second thought was that he certainly was not to be clutched in someone else’s arms, and moreover this other person’s arms were not to be another
male’s.
The next thought was that I should do or say something, but I was frozen in place. So the three of us stood there separated by a landing and a pond of brackish-looking water, faces like bleached bones, mute as doorknobs. Frederick was the first to speak:

“Introductions won’t be necessary.”

His companion, whom I’d never seen before, broke into a run, disappearing around the side of the house—and I debated: if
I
ran like the wind whipping about us, taking the stairs two at a time, I could vault the ugly water separating Frederick from me, and before Frederick could know what hit him, I’d be pummeling him with my bare hands, beating the sorry life right out of him. But I was saved from making an ass of myself by Jamie, obviously sent to round up stragglers. I wondered how much he’d seen.

“Everyone’s here!” Even with the distance and my less than perfect eyesight, I saw Jamie’s frown. “Hurry it up! It’s starting to rain and we’re ready to cut the cake!”

While my head pounded and my insides seethed, Frederick made his rounds of wedding guests, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, exchanging guffaws and back slaps. I wished him dead, and I wished to be the one to brandish the sword, to draw the blood, to scissor the entrails. He deserved to die, and it wasn’t just because he’d used Elizabeth Grayson to worm himself in with Lear, probably so he could get his hands on Magdalene Grayson’s share of the family booty. Nor was it because Magdalene was in for the surprise of her life, finding out about her husband’s preference for men—I didn’t give a tinker’s damn about Magdalene. No, for me, this had always been about what Frederick intended to do next—and I knew what that was. He intended to demolish the last vestiges of our pretty pictures, everything our colony represented: civilization, art, history, music—starting with Lear. Then he’d start on Matthew. Then me. And then
he’d
be king of
my
mountain,
and
the valley. Frederick would own the Brandywine.

I joined the other guests, moving in close to Jamie and Matthew beside the cake table, in time to see Frederick offer his arm to a tall, willowy woman. He escorted her across the great room, both like shadowy, nether-world creatures to my short-sighted eyes. But then, when they were almost on us, Magdalene turned her head. Our eyes locked, as did the breath in my chest.

“I’ll close my mouth,” Jamie whispered in my ear, “if you close yours.”

Her beauty was more spectacular than even Lothian’s. Whereas Lothian’s face was soft and oval-shaped, Magdalene’s had become chiseled angularity, fine and even—yet she wasn’t just beautiful. She had mystique, something rarely seen; it was something in her eyes. Tendrils of pale hair escaped the white snood she wore, making a halo around her damp forehead and flushed cheeks, and I sensed rather than heard Matthew’s own soft exclamation when she laughingly brushed Frederick’s cheek with her lips; lips that were wide and red and ripe, parted slightly, teasing, yet weirdly circumspect. My heart somersaulted when Frederick fed her cake, when the tip of her tongue, pink and long and tipped with ivory frosting, snaked onto those red lips, licking them clean and shiny.

She was real, the dream existed, and of course she was
not
a good woman, this lovely dream of mine. How could she be? She’d been a challenging child to put it mildly, so she couldn’t be long-suffering like my mother, or generous like Sahar. No, Magdalene Grayson was
interesting
. She was inquisitive, fractious, self-absorbed, and judgmental. And to top it off she was totally out of reach
and
the absolute worst thing in the world for me.

And I wanted her.

Exhilarated, I looked closer and saw those pale eyes weren’t actually unkind; how could I have ever thought
that?
Yes, they communicated mystery, but it was an other-worldly kind of fey I saw now, not the doomed kind. It was
question
I saw in those eyes, and suddenly I also saw the rub: Magdalene
didn’t
know as much as she’d always pretended. She did
not
know about her mother’s affair with Frederick—and she’d been wrong about the dark cloud as well. That cloud she and I’d seen beyond the lovely distance on that long-ago day was not war. The war overseas wouldn’t be the adversary keeping us apart. That dark cloud had been the announcement of Frederick’s arrival, all he’d bring with him and all he’d leave behind.

A clap of thunder rattled the great room, followed by a split of lightning. Everyone jumped and began talking. Only Jamie and Matthew and I remained silent.

But even
if
I could’ve spoken the truth about Frederick, Magdalene would’ve never believed me.

She’d have thought me insincere, because I
had
always
been insincere with her. She’d have hated me for ruining her wedding day, her life—then
I’d
have been the beast, that black cloud she’d seen on the horizon.

I flashed on what Matthew had told me about telling too much truth, about cause and effect. How smart Matthew was! Then yet another truth reared its head: I
didn’t
know anything about living and relating and probably never would’ve had I stayed wrapped up in museum relics and music. But now I was growing. I was wrapped up in Magdalene and Frederick. I was boxed-in, cut off, frustrated; like Lear and Matthew and Sahar, I was living. My love was futile, I was
experiencing
—and my hatred for Frederick Forsythe knew no bounds.

ELYSE
Sacramento 1955

“‘Fascination,’” Mother answered when I asked her the name of the song she was humming.

“What does that mean, fascination?”

Mother inspected herself in the vanity mirror and cocked her head, then touched up her lipstick.

“Mother—”

“Why,” Mother asked between pursed lips, “do you ask so many questions?”

“Because I want to know everything.”

Mother smiled a little. “Fascination means you find someone or something very interesting, maybe even … mysterious.”

“Oh.”

“You might even say it’s the opposite of hating somebody, becoming fascinated instead.”

What I was, was bored. It was Grandma’s night off and Papa had taken her to a card party. I picked up Mother’s pearls and held them to my throat. “Am I fascinated, Mother?”

That got a full smile out of her. “No, you are
fascinating
, Elyse.”

I giggled. “No
, you
are.”

But Mother was rushing me, putting on her pearls, dabbing her wrists with perfume, and gathering up her gloves and wrap. Fat lot of good it did me being fascinating.

“Will you be gone a long time?”

“I’m going dancing with Uncle Francis,” Mother said, by way of an answer. “And I want you to behave and take good care of Aunt Rose and Bean for me.”

Later that same night, when I asked Aunt Rose how fascinating she thought I was, I thought she’d spit her iced tea up all over Bean. We were in the kitchen, at the table.

“Where in the world did you get
that
one?” she sputtered. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re twenty-five instead of five, Elyse. Isn’t she the funny one, Bean?” Aunt Rose rubbed her nose against Bean’s, who smiled.

“If you don’t think I’m fascinating,” I pronounced, “it means you hate me.”

“Well, I certainly do
not
hate you, Elyse Bowden! I love you—I would never waste precious time hating you!” Aunt Rose swilled her drink, which I was starting to suspect had whiskey in it, and took another drag of her cigarette, blowing smoke in the air between me and Bean. “You’re not like a certain someone whose name I won’t mention.”

I pounced. “Who do
you
hate?”

Aunt Rose’s eyes filled and her lower lip trembled, which confirmed she’d been drinking whiskey and was on the verge of a crying jag.

“Let me take Bean for you, Aunt Rose,” I said gently. Aunt Rose let Bean slide off her lap, and I took my sister’s hand. “There, there,” I said needlessly to Bean.

Aunt Rose lit another cigarette. “One good thing about hating,” she slurred, “is it keeps me busy, out of trouble … d’you know I haven’t had a real date in two months? Too busy hating. Haven’t dated since your mother met
him
again. Your mother doesn’t know about him, you know.” Aunt Rose looked at me quizzically, frowning a little. “You have two heads!” She hiccupped and then giggled—then cried some more.

“I’ll be right back,” I told her. “Don’t move.”

“As if I could,” Aunt Rose sobbed.

In the bedroom, I tucked Bean into Mother’s bed, then raced back to the kitchen. “There, there,” I said to Aunt Rose. And then, “What doesn’t Mother know?”

“She doesn’t know about me … and him,” Aunt Rose practically whispered. “And what a louse he turned out to be.” Aunt Rose looked up then, and a semblance of cognizance flashed in her swollen eyes. She smoothed my hair. “A real louse,” she said softly.

Papa always used to say that most puzzles aren’t all that difficult to figure out if you just stay with the pieces that come in the box.

“Is it … Uncle Francis?” I breathed. “Is that who you mean, Aunt Rose? Is that who you hate? But why?”

Aunt Rose’s head wobbled as she laid it down on the table, on her arms. “The lousiest louse ever,” she mumbled before passing out.

But the next morning my glowing mother told me a totally different story. She smiled and breathed, “Francis Grayson is the most
fascinating man
ever!”

And there’s no doubt that Mother nailed
that
one, because Francis Grayson was, for me also, the most fascinating man ever—but for different, and slippery, reasons.

Because, when it was all said and done that last night at Grayson House, with everybody but Mother and Aunt Rose left standing around that room Daddy had shared with Jamie, the final question we asked of one another, over and over, was, “Who was he, really? Who was Francis Grayson? I mean
, really?”

FRANCIS
On the Road
1943–1945

The darkness was pervasive. I tried fighting it, but there was no point. The blackness kept pushing at me, cementing me to the bed, and although I managed to pull a quilt over my head, the next thing I knew they were ripping my precious cover away, thread by agonizing thread, in the form of food-laden trays and hands that plumped my pillow and caressed my brow: female voices. Voices that murmured gentle things. I shook as if chilled, and then I itched, and the more those women’s voices murmured, the more I shook and itched. They lied, those voices. They betrayed.