Timepiece (6 page)

In the next nine weeks, as spring gave way to the oppression of summer, David noticed peculiarities in MaryAnne's behavior. It seemed to him that she was unusually preoccupied, and even her motion had taken on a peculiar deliberateness. At first, he had blamed himself for the change, attributing it to his “presumptuous blunder,” until the peculiarities began to manifest themselves in more physical ways.

One afternoon, David heard her slowly climbing the stairway. She was winded when she reached the top of the stairs, and caught the railing, breathing heavily. Her
face was flushed and she brushed her forehead with the back of her hand. David had watched her curiously from his doorway. When she saw him, she dropped her hand back to her side and walked quickly past him. David followed her. She sat down at her desk and began to type, ignoring his presence so deliberately as to acknowledge it.

David interrupted her. “Miss Chandler, are you well? You look peaked.”

“I am fine,” she replied. She did not look up, obviously avoiding his eyes. David continued to stare at her. “I'm concerned. You have not seemed yourself of late.”

“Are you unsatisfied with my work?”

“No,” he said firmly. “My concern is personal.”

MaryAnne just bowed her head. Then, unexpectedly, she raised a hand to wipe a tear from her cheek.

The silence lengthened into an uncomfortable lull. David turned to leave.

MaryAnne took a deep breath. “David, may we speak?”

He stopped. It was the first time she had called him by his name and he knew that this was a matter of great significance.

“Of course. In my office.”

Inside, he offered her a chair, then, after shutting the door, returned to his desk and leaned against its front edge.

She looked down, catching tears in a handkerchief, then swallowed and looked up into his face.

“There is a reason I have behaved so peculiarly.” She paused to gain courage. “David, I am with child.”

The words had a strange effect on him. He sat back on the desk, as if his legs would fail him, and slowly shook his head. “I am such a fool. I did not know you were married.”

She lowered her head in shame. “I'm not. Nor will I be.” She wiped her cheeks, then cradled her face in her hands. “I am so
sorry. I should have told you sooner, but . . .” She stopped, unable to continue.

“Yes?” he gently coaxed.

She took a breath. “Shortly before I came to work with you I was betrothed to be married. I was so foolish. He had pledged to me his love and I did not want to displease him. We were to be married this April.” She looked up. “When he found out I was with child, he beat me.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of the clocks.

“Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I was afraid.”

“For your employment?”

She nodded, wiping away more tears. “I am all alone; I need the wages to care for my child. At first, I was afraid that you would not hire me if you knew. After I came to know you, I realized that it would not matter—that you would have hired me anyway. But by then I . . .”

David leaned forward.

“. . . I was . . . Oh, this must sound so strange!”

“No,” he said gently. “Go on, MaryAnne.”

She looked away from him, then buried her head in her hands.

“I was beginning to have other feelings for you. I was afraid you would disapprove of me.” She began to cry harder. The sound of the clocks seemed to increase in volume, interrupted by MaryAnne's occasional sobbing. Suddenly, David stepped forward and crouched down next to her chair. “There is a solution,” he said gently.

MaryAnne lowered the handkerchief from her eyes.

“You could marry me.”

She looked at him in disbelief, then covered her eyes with the handkerchief again. “Oh, David. Please do not play with me.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

She looked back up into his eyes. “You offer me yourself?”

“If it proves a bad bargain . . .”

“David? You would marry me with another man's child?”

David nodded, trying to coax a smile from her tear-streaked face.

For a moment, her eyes flashed brightly with hope, then extinguished almost as quickly. “It would be wrong for you, David. How could you?”

David took her hand in his. It was the first time that he had touched her in this way and it filled him with a strange electricity.

“In the wedding vow, they say for better or for worse. In sickness and in health. For richer or poorer. It would seem that the only thing certain about the alliance is a lot of uncertainty.”

MaryAnne looked into his eyes. His gaze was direct and kind.

“I am not afraid of uncertainty or responsibility—it is what life is made of. But I am afraid that I will not meet another woman like you. And that you will not have me.” The room fell silent except for the ticking of the clocks.

“David. I would be honored to be your wife.”

David's eyes moistened. “I love you, MaryAnne.” The words had come spontaneously, and he realized as he spoke them that it was the first time in his adult life that he had used the phrase. MaryAnne sensed the earnestness of his words and more tears welled up in her already moist eyes, then, before she could say anything, David pressed his lips against hers and gently kissed her.

MaryAnne pulled back suddenly and smiled. “I have a confession, David. Do you recall that Sunday when you accidentally called me Miss Parkin?”

David grinned, still embarrassed by the slip.

“Yes.”

“It pleased me. I felt foolish, like a schoolgirl, but I called myself MaryAnne Parkin all afternoon. I liked the sound of my name with yours.”

“MaryAnne Parkin,” David repeated. His face stretched into a broad smile. “Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “There is something very natural about the confederacy of our names. . . . Perhaps it was meant to be.”

 

“A conspiracy of florists, caterers, and clergy have done too well a job of shrouding the virtues of the elopement.”

David Parkin's Diary. July 5, 1908

The many surreys and fewer motor coaches began arriving at the Parkin mansion at seven, dispensing their affluent cargo at the doorstep, then pulling off into the field alongside the house. The sudden engagement announcement had caused no small stir among the local society, and the party was considered an affair not to be missed.

Inside, David, dressed in black tails with a white, fish-scale vest and band tie, stood in the drawing room surrounded by a group of businessmen from the Alta Club, while Catherine scurried back and forth managing a bevy of servants and seeing to the details of the affair.

Meanwhile, Victoria Marie Piper, a woman of considerable social and physical presence, had taken it upon herself to find the bride-to-be and discovered MaryAnne in the parlor in the east wing, where she had been waiting for David. Victoria swept into the room in a high-necked peach gown, encircled by a pink feather boa. At first glance, the dress might have been mistaken for a wide-hooped crinoline, as it broadened out enough to obstruct the corridor. In reality, it was only the woman.

Crossing the room with a small plate piled with cake in one hand and a china tea cup in the other, she marched up to
MaryAnne and formally introduced herself.

“Miss Chandler, I am Victoria Marie Piper, of the Boston Pipers,” she prated. “I am embarrassed to admit that we have not yet been introduced at any of the functions. Are you new to the city?”

MaryAnne blushed. “No. I have just not been to any . . . functions.”

“Oh,” she said abruptly. “Then how were you introduced to David?”

MaryAnne smiled innocently. “I was David's secretary.”

The woman made no attempt to conceal her horror. “Oh,” she gasped. “An office girl.” She took a step back. “There are such dreadful stories about the office, but I am sure they do not apply to you,” she said, looking down at MaryAnne's slightly protruding stomach. “Myself, I do not think it a woman's place, but what do I know of such things? I am too old-fashioned and probably too sensible for
my own good,” she said, flourishing a corpulent hand in dramatic gesture.

MaryAnne glanced towards the door, hoping that David would soon appear and rescue her. The woman took another bite of cake, then chased it down with tea. “Do you know David well?” she pried.

“I met him last spring,” MaryAnne answered. “I have not known him for very long.”

Victoria's face contorted in pretense to some awful knowledge. “Well, I would be ill used to not warn you of David. He is a controversial sort.”

“Controversial?”

“It is quite well known.” She set her plate on the linen cloth of a buffet, then leaned close to MaryAnne. “He associates quite openly with the Negroes and makes absolutely no attempt to hide it. It is as if he is not ashamed of it.”

MaryAnne felt her cheeks flush with indignation. Victoria continued.

“You should be apprised. Of course, I should be pleased if this was the worst of his vices. There is much more that you should know.” She paused to fan herself. “But this is not the time or place. It is disloyal of me to eat his cake and poison his name.”

“Yes,” MaryAnne replied, “perhaps you should just poison his cake and be done with it.”

The woman glared at MaryAnne. Just then, David entered the room. Victoria's mouth pursed in a garish smile. “Oh, David, how are you?”

“The state of my health cannot possibly be of any concern to you, Victoria. What gossip are you boring MaryAnne with?”

“Oh, David, you have such an imagination,” she drawled, turning to MaryAnne. “We really must have tea sometime, dear. Before the wedding.” Her words lifted in a cruel crescendo. “I have so much to tell you.” She took her plate and strutted out of
the room. MaryAnne breathed a sigh of relief.

David grinned. “So you met Victoria.”

“I am afraid I have offended her.”

“It speaks well of you to offend Victoria.”

MaryAnne stifled a laugh.

“Though one should not be too hard on the woman. She cannot help but turn up her nose.”

“And why is that?”

He pointed to his throat. “Her double chin.”

“David, you are awful.”

“Yes, but I am honest. Are you bored?”

“I feel a bit out of place.”

“As do I. This affair reeks of pretension. It is like lard frosting without the cake. Of course, the truly criminal thing is that it is our affair!”

MaryAnne laughed heartily. “Oh, David, you make me happy.” She sighed. “It is so good to laugh.”

“I drink your laughter, MaryAnne. It intoxicates me.” David took her hand and led her out onto the back patio overlooking the garden walkway. The July air was cool and the waning sickle of a moon dimly lit the cobblestone walkway below.

“So what did Victoria have to say?”

“Nothing worth repeating, I'm afraid.”

“You should know that I love gossip about myself.”

“Then I will tell you. She says that you are controversial and associate with the Negroes.”

“If Victoria is nothing, she is honest. Have I lost you now?”

“She has endeared you to me. You should have seen her face when she learned I was your secretary. She kept looking down at my stomach.”

“I would be disappointed in her if she had not noticed.”

“Why does she act so?”

“Because Victoria is the worst kind of society.
She is not old money or new money, but somewhere in between, so she is forever trying to prove that she belongs somewhere in society. You, my love, simply are not of their caste. Of course, neither am I, but as I am richer than they, and as money is their God, or at least their idol, they must bow. But they despise doing it.” David smiled indulgently. “Money, as they say, is always chic.”

MaryAnne suddenly looked down and leaned back against the railing. “David, how will marrying me affect your social standing?”

David laughed. “Very well, I think, now that I have someone I care to socialize with.” He paused, studying her sad countenance. “MaryAnne, you are thinking of your mother and father. It is similar in a way, is it not?”

MaryAnne nodded.

“Except our story has a happy ending. Besides, I believe the ‘Victorias' of my
world are happy for my decision. I am certain they believe a woman, if not able to civilize me, will at least round off the rough edges.”

MaryAnne kissed his cheek. “How goes it downstairs?”

“Awful. When the mayor entered, he handed Lawrence his coat.”

“Oh, my. What did you do?”

“I had just entered the foyer, so I greeted Lawrence as a war hero, flattered the coat he held, and asked if I could hang it for him.”

“Oh, my,” she repeated. “What did the mayor do?”

“He was florid. My only regret is that Victoria was not present. A good fainting is guaranteed to get a party into the social column.”